


Proper Care of Pets: Werewolf Edition

by felicia_angel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Were-Creatures, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicia_angel/pseuds/felicia_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a> this prompt </a></p><p>Werewolves are considered to be animals. They have the same rights as dogs and must be in the care of a pure human. Some become beloved family pets; others, search and rescue or police dogs. The Royal Army buys and maintains a whole unit of werewolves because they make fantastic soldiers.</p><p>John Watson is invalided home to the London Kennels after getting shot with a silver bullet. But a werewolf with military and medical training is valuable, and he fully expects to be sold to some wealthy lord or politician. And he probably would have, if a certain unassuming government official hadn't stepped in.</p><p>Sherlock is furious at Mycroft's latest attempt to interfere with his life. He doesn't want a pet or a bodyguard, but Mycroft, overachiever that he was, managed to get him both in one unassuming jumper-clad werewolf. One who will be just as dull and stupid and uninteresting as the rest of London, lycanthropy aside. He fully intends to do his best to drive John away.</p><p>So it's a toss up on whether Mycroft or Sherlock is more surprised when John actually <i>likes</i> Sherlock.</p><p>*NOTE: In the process of updating chapters.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Not Mine" OR How to Choose the Werewolf that Best Suits You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft buys Sherlock a werewolf - John - to care for him. Sherlock isn't sure if he's happy with the situation or not. More then likely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with a new and awesome cover by [LimoadeGaby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LimonadeGaby/pseuds/LimonadeGaby)! Thanks so much for her work!

The new flat that Sherlock had been able to get was cluttered, and close enough to central London that Mycroft would have thought he had somehow liked to the elderly woman who answered the door when he knocked, except she seemed so generally appreciative of Sherlock that he guessed this was one of Sherlock’s many clients who had paid him through either an interesting case or later favors, accepted or not. The steps lead up to a somewhat cluttered living space, the table in the kitchen having been taken over by lab equipment, and the bedroom having also been cluttered and not recently slept in.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Sherlock remarked with annoyance, glancing up at Mycroft from his place in his chair, the favored violin in his lap and ready to tell his mood or when it was time for Mycroft to leave. Sherlock had always been better at noticing other’s moods rather than expressing his own, and so used various tools for that.

“As usual, it’s to ensure you’re safety. I brought you something.”

“You brought me a werewolf, and I’m not interested,” Sherlock said, playing a few cords with his fingers, watching Mycroft as he looked around the room.

“You have him for a week,” Mycroft declared, earning a glare from Sherlock as Mycroft produced the small book he used for notes, “he came highly recommended, and I had to pull in a lot of favors to get him.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, now really, Sherlock, you’re not going to tell me you’re not interested because you decided that PeTA is right.”

“No, simply that I have no time, and I saw him when you came in. He’s waiting downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, probably being fed and watered while you come up here. He’s dull, like everyone else you’ve sent as my keeper and very much like every other guard who’s followed me. Lestrade is still quite annoyed at the last case, after your man shot the suspect when he attempted to attack me.”

“Which is why he’ll be happy to know you brought along a useful asset to his group as well.”

“He _has_ dogs, and I’m sure that if Donovan could, she’d let one bite me, but she’s Lestrade’s loyal pet. If I wanted something like that, I’d get a goldfish.”

“Your last fish died due to neglect,” Mycroft reminded him, “and this one is reliant. He’s not dull.”

Sherlock stopped attempting to pluck tunes out of the violin and looked up at Mycroft again. “You said you had to pull favors. So he’s not just dull, others think he’s _worth_ something. You don’t get pure-bred wolves like that in second-hand jackets or those jumpers – so a mutt.”

Mycroft waited as Sherlock thought then stood, putting the violin down…a sign, at least to Mycroft, that he was thinking about the proposition. “He’s not just a keeper, then. He’s trained for something else. Military trained, but hurt in the line of duty, so no longer of use to them. Why is he of use to me?”

“At least one politician who could possibly make trouble for me, and two lords who know better, have their hand in for who gets his leash if I don’t keep him. He may not be pure-bred but he’s a good choice for body guard and helper.”

Sherlock tilted his head, thinking, “With something so valuable, what—ah, the wound…it’s not in his leg, but he has a limp. He’s got a problem psychologically, which means be careful around him, and make sure he gets the help needed. Also might mean he can’t become a werewolf, which is just as dangerous.”

Mycroft waited before Sherlock shrugged, moving around the room and picking up something or another and moving it elsewhere. “He’s still dull.”

His brother sighed, dropping off a folder. “Yes, and he’s yours for a week.”

Sherlock finally just waved, Mycroft taking that as meaning he’d at least meet the werewolf, causing him to smile as he moved to the stairs, seeing the wolf starting to make his way up. “If you’d like?” he offered, watching him come up the rest and pass Mycroft, walking and looking around the room before his eyes fell on Sherlock, who had picked up the file and was putting it off with some others before he looked up. Mycroft had moved to the kitchen and thus didn’t see Lestrade rushing upstairs until he was nearly to the top, his feet heavy as he rushed in, causing Watson to turn. Lestrade paused long enough to look at the two before Sherlock said, “What’s different about this one?”

“You know how they never leave a note?” Lestrade said before Sherlock nodded, “This one did. Are you coming?”

“Who’s working forensics?”

“Anderson, but you don’t have to work with him.” Sherlock frowned, than looked to the werewolf before nodding. “Very well, but I must bring him along. I have him for a week, at least, might as well make the most of it.”

John had blinked at this, looking around but without much time as Lestrade had left, Sherlock managing a smile, or as much of one that he could in the presence of Mycroft, which was the only testament to how excited he was before he headed out, grabbing his coat, scarf, and gloves. “Coming?” he inquired when he got to the stairs, John following after him as fast as he could.

Sherlock at least held the taxi for both rather than leaving, and Mycroft considered that a success.

\--

“Who let you have a wolf, Freak?” Sally Donovan asked, looking over the limping dog with Sherlock, the large collar around his neck showing that he had a wolf form and could easily take it. He wore a ratty jumper and second-hand jacket, causing Donovan to wonder if he had not been well cared for before, and who would want to give the poor thing to someone like the Freak.

“He’s not mine,” Donovan heard, looking to the wolf and then back to the Freak. Despite what he said, he held up the tape before saying, “Coming John?”

“Um…” the wolf said, Donovan getting a good look at him. He had short, blond hair, though his ears were a shade darker and, though up, seemed to send out his confusion. He also had a slightly haggard, confused face, blue eyes taking in Sherlock before crossing over, giving Donovan a smile that she felt required to return. She had never had a wolf of her own, but had grown up near a grouping of strays and they helped out with odd jobs around the house, and she had helped them how she could. She could tell by how his ears were set – a bit higher than a human’s – and his blue eyes that he was probably from a line of domestic ones, more than likely the ones trained to round up sheep and the like. He was collared and appeared fine in it, so that meant his family had been tame for a long while, or at least that he’d been born domesticated and hadn’t been wild or a stray at any point…though his clothing was starting to look it.

Donovan called in to Lestrade that the Freak was here, watching a few of the wolves with Scotland Yard take in the new arrival as Anderson came up, glaring at Sherlock and the wolf, John, respectively. Anderson disliked wolves for some unexplained reason, but worked well enough with them that there were no problems to report. Still, it was one of many reasons Sally would never have more than a casual fling with him.

Then Sherlock mentioned the fact that both were wearing the same deodorant. One of the wolves nearby cast her a look that said she was obviously amazed Sherlock could tell the scent, then moved away when Anderson noticed and glared at her, Sally stopping him from advancing as instead he returned to see about making the Freak look like an idiot.

He never succeeded, really, but it was something he thought he could do. Sally had stopped, waiting instead for Sherlock to mess up and to show the world that he was finally the psychopath he was.

She watched as the wolves sniffed around, some in wolf-form and one whining, having found a trace but not sure what it was. The few that had been in with Lestrade and herself during the investigation said that the areas were half-deserted and a scent _should_ have been found, but instead there were too many that all they could tell for sure was that whoever else had been there had too many people coming with them, or no scent.

Which was hard to obtain, if at all, as everyone _had_ a scent and instead, there was none, or the non-scent was there because too many were layered on top of the original one, which was also probable. Sally knew that it was frustrating Lestrade to no end, but without any extra information from the bodies, he couldn’t call in the Freak or any other specialist and most simply called the deaths ‘suicides’.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock ran out, passing Sally without a word and muttering to himself about ‘pink’. John appeared a minute later and starting to move to her, but stopped and went to one of the wolves instead. It was rude, she knew, for wolves to really talk to a Human without their permission, but she had grown up around a few and never really had taken to that form of training everyone else had. Wolves were just like people, after all, and some of the strays could pass as human anyway.

“He’s gone,” she told him, explaining he’d left and that he was dangerous.

“I know,” John said, “but…” he sighed. “How do I get to the main road from—“ he stopped as a car pulled up, sleek black and making him all but bristle in anger. “Never mind. Thank you…for the advise.”

Sally was quite sure he wouldn’t take it, and watched him limp over to a taller man, the two talking and she staying near the wolves, watching but inching forward. Whoever this odd man was, he had somehow pissed this wolf off and she didn’t want to have to hurt him. John seemed nice…too nice for Sherlock Holmes.

“With respect,” John growled out, “ _piss off_.”

At that, he walked away, Sally blinking as she watched him. The man watched him as well, glancing over at her after a moment. His face the type she wouldn’t trust, possibly a career politician or something similar. His eyes, cool and the same odd coloring as Sherlock’s, gazed over her, then back to the limping wolf.

“John Watson, get in the car,” he said, his voice seeming conversational but the order obvious, causing even Sally to flinch as she watched John turn back, looking him over before walking over, getting into the car, the man following before the dark door closed and the black car drove away.

\--

The whole of the case was memorable because Sherlock had lost John already, and Mycroft had returned him with a glare before departing, John looking annoyed at the treatment. Sherlock had not read up on the wolf, but John had been able to smell certain chemicals that he couldn’t have known about unless he’d read the papers, and considering how confused the wolf had been at talk about the ‘serial suicides’, that was out. This meant his training in the military had been possibly as a bomb division wolf, or something similar for locating danger…dull.

While it might be nice to figure him out, the case was much more interesting then Mycroft’s next attempt to get him to be protected. Honestly, it was just so silly.

Sherlock managed to leave the dog again, or thought he had, on the way to Angelo’s. However, the wolf appeared a few minutes later, rubbing his leg as Angelo came up, glancing at the dog and then at Sherlock, the confusion and question evident on his face. Sherlock shook his head, stating everything was fine before saying to John, “If you’re not able to keep up, I don’t see why you stay.”

John was silent before asking, “Why are we here?”

“I’m waiting for a killer. You’re here because my brother told you to watch over me.”

John frowned at that. “No, I’m not.” Angelo came by, taking the order and getting a water for Sherlock before leaving again, John sighing as he added, “I told your brother to piss off, anyway. And that was after he threatened me with a silver muzzle or working at the docks.”

Sherlock looked at him, blinking and staring to the point where most others were uncomfortable, eyes darting over the werewolf and finally taking him in. He was a mutt, as most traditional wolves were not so blonde and had the same color of fur as their Human hair. His actions and the way he spoke while with Humans said he’d worn the collar all his life, so there was a high possibility of what was called ‘wolf-dog’, a werewolf lineage that was careful kept and bred by Humans. His deferment to Lestrade, and his glance at the pack outside the crime scene, said he knew pack and human-wolf mechanics – though that was obvious if he’d been a military dog – but also that he was recovering enough to feel comfortable with those interactions.

He was telling the truth, as well. The threat of the workhouse on the docks that had been the bane of the RSPCA and PeTA and other werewolf-rights groups, as well as the threat of being muzzled or even _touched_ by anything silver had not prompted him to come after Sherlock. It had not even been a thought in following his scent here, despite his bad leg that seemed to not be as bad as it could be after tracking someone down. No, he’d come here because, without Sherlock knowing it, he’d gotten himself a werewolf.

Sherlock turned back, ignoring John in the hopes he’d go away. Sherlock didn’t want a werewolf. Werewolves had been used as slaves for centuries to millennia, bred alongside dogs to help humanity, mistreated by many, enslaved by some and hated in other societies. Many groups argued about the treatment, but the general end of it had been treatment as good as dogs: protection from the SPCA and other groups, as well as all stores and places of business having some sort of way to cater to werewolves. They were still slaves in some regards, but they were more servants to some, coworkers to others, and not as badly treated by others as in the past.

Of course, there were the extremes. There were those who thought of wolves as just animals, and who regularly used them for fights or hard labor. There were those who thought of them as the same as humans, and who demanded equal rights. Both had their radicals and Sherlock had never wanted to be caught up in the mess because all of it was dull. Dull and far too normal and irrational for him to want to deal with, unless they committed an _interesting_ crime and he was called in to solve it. Having a werewolf meant he was biased. Having a wolf meant he would have to care for it, and ensure he had money to do it. More importantly, having a wolf meant he would have something following him, something stopping him from learning everything he could because it wasn’t _proper_ for someone to act this way, yet another thing to judge him. Sherlock had had enough of that for any lifetime.

\--

John Watson, as a wolf, was larger than his small, compact self, his fur a light blonde color with gray and white mixed into the undercoat. He was able to keep up with Sherlock as soon as they started to run, shifting easily between human and wolf as they ran, his clothing being shred while his shoes were lost somewhere in one of the back alleys as they went after the taxi.

His form was kept as they got to the cab, Sherlock opening the door as Watson started in but stopped, sniffing the suitcase and sneezing twice, Sherlock seeing that the man couldn’t have been the murderer and apologizing, walking off with John following him, the limp gone and making him smile down a little at the wolf, who stayed close to him, the two hurrying off upon seeing the police nearby. Sherlock knew that he couldn’t lose John in his wolf form, so instead headed back to 221b. Oddly enough, when he got back, the wolf had seemed pleased and it’d gotten Sherlock to chuckle a bit, letting out the adrenaline and thrill of the chase.

It had only been a day, and he had the wolf for a week. He’d be able to lose it soon, he was sure.

\--

Sherlock was not sure how John got to the building so quickly, only that he had almost found out that he was right when the doors behind the man opened, causing him to turn only to be tackled by John in wolf-form, teeth sinking into his shoulder as the cabbie let out a scream. Sherlock dropped the pill, surprised by the attack before the man attempted to raise the fake gun.

The movement was a fast one, the jaws closing on the wrist and a foot shifting to a spot that would put pressure on the shoulder-wound, causing the cabbie to gasp in pain and drop the fake-gun. Sherlock slowly approached, knowing that an attacking wolf in any form was dangerous, and managed to stand over the two before he shifted to put his own foot on the wound. The wolf’s paw moved, but the teeth stayed on the wrist of the murderer. “Who is it? Who’s my fan?”

At the man’s non-answer, John growled deeply, his teeth slowly sinking into the cabbie’s arm as Sherlock leaned forward, causing the cabbie more pain before he screamed out the name. Satisfied, Sherlock touched John’s shoulder, getting him to let the man loose. His muzzle was coated with blood, and he slowly licked some of it off, following Sherlock to a bathroom nearby as the police began to come.

“Well,” Sherlock told him, annoyed by the series of events, “change back.”

John did, turning so he wasn’t facing forward but instead to the side. Sherlock tilted his head a little, seeing the wound on John’s shoulder. The silver had left a crater, a sort of splintered thing that had some discoloring, enough to show the area where the silver had affected the most, one going upward towards his neck. Besides that, he was in good shape, and Sherlock could see how he was able to gain his value as a companion. Even poisoned by silver, John was probably a medically-trained wolf, and knew his boundaries. Whatever else John’s background, it’d ended up with a perfect guard dog for any family or person. No wonder Mycroft had made enemies to gain him before throwing the dog at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, taking off his coat and handing it to John. “Here…until we get back, at least.” John took it, wrapping the larger coat around himself and looking back to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, asking, “Why? Why did you follow me?”

“I like you,” John said, shrugging as they walked outside, Sherlock looking at him with surprise as they did, speechless as they reached Lestrade. One of the wolves in his unit brought up some clothing, the basics, which John smiled and thanked him for before going to put on shoes, a pair of pants, and a shirt, the sight of a jumper from home causing him to blink, the wolf shrugging a little before leaving. Sherlock gave his statement, looking around for a moment before John returned, the two leaving together.

Sherlock tried to figure out what it was that made him want to keep John suddenly. He shouldn’t keep John, though, because that would be trouble, the sort that he didn’t want to have right now.


	2. "Return to Sender" OR Your Local Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's week with John is almost over when he gets a new case, and he might have to change his mind about if he does want the werewolf or not.

The Week, as Sherlock thought of it, was almost up when he received an e-mail.

Sherlock’s work had forced move through London quickly, and he’d managed to lose John twice while going after criminals, John returning to 221b each time and looking rather put-out by the whole thing, especially as both times Mrs. Hudson had not been home. Sherlock hadn’t given John a key, usually ones that were kept on collars in case the wolf shifted before they came home, and this last time he’d shifted to try to follow Sherlock, only to have him run through a restaurant that John could only go through in wolf or naked Human form. That time, he’d been returned by one of the RSPCA officers, a man named Gregson who was Lestrade’s counterpart for the SPCA officers.

It didn’t help that Lestrade and Gregson were at each other’s throats like professional beauty queens, but as Sherlock was sure they’d never run into each other again after Sunday, at least not in front of 221b, he’d simply left them there, bringing in John and ignoring him for the rest of the day. If John couldn’t figure his way around such an obstacle, he was far duller then Sherlock gave him credit for.

Sherlock had considered simply dropping John off at the London Kennels with the paperwork that he’d never looked into. He was sure he could come up with a plausible reason for not wanting the dog and for returning him to the Kennels, at least one that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to counter easily.

Not that John bothered him that much. Despite the two times he’d returned home to wait for Sherlock to return, or for someone to let him into the rooms, John had not appeared too upset by it. For a few days, he’d slept on a small bed in the living room until asking, politely, if he could have the upstairs room. Originally, Sherlock wanted to deny him that use – it felt too permanent and he’d been using that room for storage until he could officially turn it into a good science room, but Mrs. Hudson had allowed it on the grounds that the rooms in 221c were too damp. She’d even cleared a small space for him to the small cot, which John had thanked her for. Really, the woman had taken to the wolf far too readily.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the e-mail. It had been sent by a friend of Molly’s, Edith Presbury, who was worried about her father and his new change of attitude. Their wolf, Roy Byrd, had moved in with her after once growling at the father and then snapping at him near the time of the full moon, when werewolf nature often could overcome the human side, and received a sudden and brutal beating, the worst that Roy had ever gotten in his time of service. Edith and her fiancée had been surprised, and while her father appeared to want to euthanize his wolf, they took Roy in.

The main problem, it seemed, was that Roy stated that had change had come over Mr. Presbury, something that had caused the wolf to feel that there was something dangerous going on, that Presbury had changed to a point that he was worried about his old owner.

Sherlock sat back, reading the final few words asking for help before hearing John in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Sherlock waited a bit until he asked, “What would a werewolf fear?”

John looked over at him, slightly surprised at the question before saying, “Silver…wolfsbane to a point, mostly Eastern and Northern European variety, with a few that just makes us queasy…we’re allergic to rye grains, mistletoe is also dangerous to us…”

“Making Christmases a hardship, then?”

John frowned at the near-joke, adding, “I can’t think of anything else.”

“What about a sudden change in your owner?” Sherlock asked, watching as John went back to take care of the whistling pot.

The wolf was silent as he poured a cup for himself, moving back to the main room before saying, “There is that, but it would have to be a very big change. We can tell if they’re not who they say, so long as we knew them long enough before then. What type of fear are we talking about?”

Sherlock shook his head, wondering why John didn’t just start off with that question instead of adding in all the extra information that was probably useless or easy to find. “Enough to get a loyal wolf to snarl at his owner once, and for the owner to issue a beating for it…what do you think would instill that type of fear?”

John seemed perplexed by this, obviously considering before saying, “I…well, I’ve never heard of them doing anything like that.”

Sherlock frowned at that, looking back before saying, “Well, I need to have another wolf to help me explain this, so you might as well come along. This should be an interesting thing, at least for the next few days.”

\--

Edith Presbury was waiting for them, letting the duo in shortly after they rang.

“Sam’s in class right now,” she said, letting them in, “Roy’s feeling a little under the weather.”

Sherlock nodded, John looking around before asking, politely, “Is he still recovering from the beating?”

“He’s trained medically,” Sherlock told her, earning a grateful smile as they headed in, Edith pointing the way to where Roy’s room was while she took Sherlock into the main room, sitting down with him and offering up a small bit of candy in a dish she had out.

“I need to talk to you about your father, and what was going on,” he said, “Your e-mail was…not quite as detailed as I’d liked.”

Edith nodded, shifting before she launched into her story.

\--

Roy was an older wolf, currently in Human form but looking rather bad. Werewolf abuse was not uncommon, but there were cases that obviously took things too far. Roy’s was one of those, his ears (lower than John’s and tinged with gray, showing that Roy had more Human in him) bleeding slightly from cuts and his face a mass of bruises to one side. Roy opened his unswollen eye a bit as John knelt beside him, careful to be close but not too close as to threaten.

“My name’s John,” he said, “John Watson.”

“I’ve heard of you,” he said, or tried to but John had been taught to hear and speak the quiet ‘hurts too much to really speak’ tone that Roy was using.

“Is there a first aid kit?” at Roy’s nod and slight point with his good hand, John quickly got it and went to work, putting a splinter on two fingers with the bruising that was consistent with a boot print, and noting the pattern of bruising on Roy’s face and neck. From what John could tell, a fist had been used first, then the boot when Roy was down.

John was able to get some painkillers as well, though it was mostly pills, and a glass of water before saying, “Has she taken you in?”

“S-she’s scared I’ll be taken away,” he said, “I need to become a stray. They’ll kill me if I go in.”

John frowned, shaking his head. “Snarling--.”

“He…he told them I tried to bite him.”

John stopped, blinking at him. “D-did you?”

Roy shook his head, the graying hair shifting a little to show another, older scar, John frowning and moving it to look more.

“d-“

“He did more than just this, didn’t he? He abused you.”

Roy was silent before saying, “He…was not abusive but…he wanted perfection. He only hit me if it wasn’t right. But…but recently he’s been…more hostile. Nothing was right, and when he invited others over who brought wolves, we were put outside in the old stables.”

“No one objected?”

Roy shook his head. “I never heard of it, but he’s gotten worst since…he went on a trip to Europe and met someone there.”

“Who?”

“I…don’t know. She was…nice, I guess, but when he came back he was…different. Angry but also…stronger, and he…he smelled like—like silver and wolfsbane.”

\--

Sherlock frowned, considering what Edith had told her. “Fascinating. Has he told you anything else?”

She shook her head, her dark blond hair pulled back and her eyes worried. “Nothing. I’ve been too scared to contact him since I found Roy.”

“Why haven’t you reported that?”

She blushed, looking down before saying, “Father said Roy tried to bite him.”

“You said--.”

“I know, but that…I thought he meant that. I told him he must have just meant growling, but he’s adamant that Roy tried and should be killed. He’s not a perfect man, Mr. Holmes, but he’s a good man.”

John appeared at the doorway, pausing upon hearing that and the look on his face confirming one extra thing for Sherlock. “How is Roy?”

“Hurt,” John said, sounding annoyed, “but he’ll recover. He’s too hurt to do much around the house, so you’ll have to care for him.”

Edith nodded. “I know. I don’t mind. Roy all but raised me, I can’t let him be killed.”

Sherlock looked over at John as he shifted uneasily. “What did he say?”

“That Mr. Presbury was different when he came back from a trip to Europe, that he’d met a woman there, and that he smelled like silver and wolfsbane.”

Sherlock ignored the question of what, exactly, silver smelled like before instead adding, “Edith mentioned it. It was for a lecture or something?”

Edith nodded, saying, “My father’s a university professor, and went to give a lecture on languages and how they form throughout evolution, as well as how they’re changing even today. He said he met another professor, of anthropology, while there and was inspired by her.”

Sherlock’s mind was working. A meeting of an anthropology teacher was one thing, at least. “Did he mention a name?”

“A Mrs. Kre—oh, I’m sorry, I’m horrible with names. Roy didn’t know?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t ask. He’s far too weak to recall everything.”

The tone also stated that if Roy knew, it was by talking with Edith and not his owner. Sherlock sighed, deciding that John was really too formal for this. “John, just tell her what you mean, I’m tired of your attitude.”

John jerked, looking like the tone had been more a physical slap then anything, and finally nodded, not bothering to look at either. “Roy has signs of…past abuse. He said your father started putting him and any visiting wolves in the old stables, and that he’s always been hard on Roy for one thing or another, but that it’s escalated since his return. Roy’s not sure what it means, and is afraid of leaving and getting help for his wounds because he’ll be unable to help you.”

Sherlock appeared to be watching John, but was instead watching Edith Presbury’s look. She seemed to have too many emotions on her face, but the major one was an attempt at denial while he brain brought up every point that John had mentioned, down to this current one. Sherlock twisted the knife.

“You found him in the stables and your father didn’t bring charges until you took Roy,” he stated, seeing her face fall as he told her what she hadn’t said, trying to either deny her father’s abuse of the wolf or her own neglect to notice it. Something that was easy if one grew up in a household where the abuse was either behind closed doors or unseen, “and you spoke to Molly about solving why someone’s mood would suddenly change. You want to know why it went from the years of possibly casual or even allowed abuse to this bad, and why Roy described him as that.”

“R-Roy…” she swallowed, looking over at Sherlock, “my father started growing wolfsbane, and has always had some sort of silver piece somewhere. I know he didn’t use it on Roy this time, but what if…what if next time he touches him with silver? Or puts him near the wolfsbane? Sam’s going to be an officer, which he doesn’t disapprove of, but started to when he said it was for the RSPCA. Father said it as a waste, that there was no reason for us to protect animals with only half a brain, that if we trained them right, they’d turn out fine. It was…he said it was our duty to just ensure they were trained. Then he went to Europe and…well, Sam didn’t come with me, but after he heard that Roy was being charged with nearly biting, he kept him here. He could--.”

Sherlock raised his hand. “His job is in line. Only if what you said doesn’t come up, and they’ll find the old scars if John could.”

John looked up once then back down again, Sherlock standing before saying, “Miss Presbury, take Roy into the Kennels. Explain what happened. Gregson, as far as I know him, is a good man to explain it to, and the doctors there will help him recover. Your father is taking an extract of an old serum that is more commonly used, now, to create fighting werewolves for illegal activities.”

Edith nodded, looking to the bedroom as Sherlock finally added. “It’s up to you: your father or your wolf.”

\--

It had started raining lightly, and whatever God had determined to make this a bad day for John was only making it worst by ensuring there were no cabs, or those hailed were either filled by attractive women in wet shirts or passed them by. Sherlock, standing next to him, finally started moving up a little more and attempting to hail them by himself, John having to trot to keep a good pace near him in case of anything bad, his shoulder aching from the cold and wet, and his already somewhat pensive mood turning more and more sour. He had been bought to care for this large child of a man, and instead of being a toy to be played with and forgotten, he’d simply gone to being forgotten despite his attempts to be useful for once.

He’d tried to be useful as well. He’d gotten the cabbie before Sherlock could do something stupid. He’d followed Sherlock except for those two times. He’d not complained about anything, mostly because he couldn’t see a reason to. In truth, he was far too busy attempting to adjust to life in England again, to life without a pack, and the Human who was running away from him was…well, he was his pack. Sherlock was the only pack John had, as his old owners didn’t want or need a wounded military dog, even for breeding purposes, and his pack from before were dead, worse off then he, or in a new pack with new handlers or owners.

Sherlock had, during John’s musings, gotten a cab and left in it when John didn’t get there quick enough, causing him to once more flinch at the idea of having let Sherlock down. Both brothers Holmes were different, on some sort of odd plane where it didn’t matter what you were, so long as you made yourself mildly useful. John had, thus far, not been useful. He’d not helped solve a crime, only revealed one to be the cause of it. He’d stopped the cabbie only after Sherlock had him and could easily have turned him over to the police. Twice now he’d either lost Sherlock’s scent or not found a way to follow him that didn’t involve running around London naked, and gotten himself brought back to the apartment only to get the two officers to fight.

John turned, attempting to track the way back through memory and what smell there was in the rain. He had few scenting breeds in his family, if at all, but was good enough to know drugs, disease, some bomb chemicals, and to follow the scent home. The problem with ‘home’ was that it relied mostly on Sherlock’s scent, and Sherlock tended to track all over London, either on cab or by foot, to the point where only a well-trained scent-dog might be able to follow him. John, with most of his training medical and fighting, had to try and focus on what he remembered and what he could find.

He had until Monday to prove himself, and he would, somehow.

That was the point that he got a new scent, one he’d only heard described, and turned, looking from his spot where he’d started down an alley he vaguely recalled to see a tall man with white hair and a hard look, as well as distinctive boots that made distinctive bruises, heading to where Edith Presbury’s apartment was.

\--

Sherlock got home and set about getting out of his soaked coat, then checking up on a lead. Two hours later, he made himself some tea. Three hours later, he marked that he’d lost John again in a week span and decided it would be the best excuse to return him.

Four hours later, Sherlock was pacing and knew, for certain, that John Watson wasn’t a tracker wolf at all if it took him this long to return home. In fact, he shouldn’t be attached to anyone who traveled or moved a lot, as he seemed to have that huge inability to even return home after doing so thrice before, once with assistance and twice without.

Granted, they had been nearer to an area that John must have known, but that didn’t count in the data he’d received. John Watson was a bad werewolf, and would be punished accordingly.

At the five hour mark, Sherlock retraced the steps back to Edith Presbury’s apartment and found the police outside, finishing clearing up the tape. One, who normally worked with Lestrade, recognized Sherlock and told him that there had been a break-in, and that Edit Presbury was under suspicion of housing a dangerous wolf, who possibly had double-crossed her and let in a friend. Some strays were like that, forming up with human gangs—

At five hours and five minutes, Sherlock Holmes was running and calling himself twenty types of an idiot in as many languages. When he found the blood trail, he hit his second and then his third wind as he raced after it, and stopped calling himself an idiot.

He did, however, call himself far worst and in those same languages.

\--

Lestrade took the call because it was odd for Sherlock to call and not text. The voice on the other end was breathless and worried, something that made Lestrade point and get Donovan and his own grouping of wolves ready to leave before he got the address and story, and they were out the door and on their way before Sherlock hung up. This, unluckily, meant that Lestrade would have to call Gregson and get a team from the RSPCA over as well.

The building was one that had yet to be rented out or renovated, and there was only a few signs of where Sherlock might have entered, causing Lestrade to consider if a very stern talking to and keeping him out of a few cases until absolutely necessary would be the best way to punish him, but as this had not worked the last five times, he doubted it would stick this time.

Lestrade motioned for one of the wolves and Donovan to follow him, the others waiting outside for Gregson and his group, as well as tracking anyone who came in or had left the building recently.

The entrance that Sherlock had used was one that Lestrade was sure wolves and the homeless used to get into the complex, getting them into a quiet area with more holes and a closed, possibly blocked door. Lestrade was able to hear the sound of a werewolf, the half-man, half-wolf form that came up when a wolf was either crazed, angered far too much to be either, or drugged coming through one side, and the sound of cursing and something, a pipe against another, making the wolf with them, Dawkins, flinch and nearly whimper in his human form.

Donovan stood slowly, looking through one as she pulled her gun, shifting a little before making a motion to Lestrade, who slowly stood and looked through another hole, noting that the front door was barred but not by much, and in the main room of the building was a good amount of boxes, both wooden and cardboard, one that was broken and allowing Lestrade to see the older werewolf form being the source of the growl, Sherlock standing nearby as an angry man attempted to get past John, who was not transformed but looked pained. The angry man slammed two pipes together at John, causing him to flinch a little but not get out of his position.

Lestrade decided that another lecture was in order as he motioned to Donovan, getting out his gun and seeing that Dawkins was starting to get into his wolf form, one of the few that could easily take down the werewolf form, Lestrade moving forward as he held up his badge, Donovan moving over to the other side of the boxes as Lestrade yelled, “POLICE!”

Sherlock gave him a quick, annoyed look at the man banging the pipes stopped, looking up at Lestrade. “Thank God. These two are trying to--.”

“Sir, drop the pipes,” Lestrade interrupted, getting the man to look even angrier as Sherlock added, “If you brought in a wolf, Lestrade, keep it on a tight leash. He’s set one wolf into a rage already.”

“You lying asshole,” the man growled out, almost as badly as the werewolf before Sherlock continued, “He’s been growing wolfsbane in his backyard, and found a rather wonderful concoction with silver that sets a wolf’s teeth on edge and makes them far more prone to irrationality.”

Lestrade managed to glance to Dawkins, who was far enough away it seemed to not growl, but had his head lowered, Donovan glancing at John as Sherlock continued, the man glaring at the werewolf and then to John. From Lestrade’s position, he couldn’t see if there was any change so far in John but knew that if they didn’t defuse the situation soon, something bad would happen.

“He met someone in Europe who taught him the recipe,” Sherlock continued, Donovan getting near enough as the man started to raise one of the pipes, pointing the gun and stating, “Drop it.”

Lestrade nodded to Sherlock, shifting a little closer. “Talk about this outside, can we?”

Dawkins let out a growl as he got into view and saw the man, who nearly slapped the pipes again but for Donovan shifting forward, glaring at him before he put the two down. John moved back towards Sherlock, who grabbed his collar as Donovan grabbed the man and handcuffed him.

“What are you doing? This crazed wolf attacked me, and tried to get his accomplice to help him!” the man looked over at Sherlock. “He’s not yours, is he? I should press charges…not having him on a leash like we should have all dogs…”

“Enough,” Donovan said as the door was opened, Gregson and his group coming in as Lestrade holding up his hand. “Get the wolves away from the door, please. We have reason to believe he has something that is…not helpful to werewolves.” The sight of the werewolf and Dawkins, who was a well-trained police dog, growling at the man as he was pulled out, was enough for Gregson to give the order before asking, “Wolfsbane?”

“And silver, along with some extra I would think to greatly reduce the toxicity to humans,” Sherlock said, glancing at Lestrade as he nodded before motioning to John, who seemed to be swaying on his feet next to Sherlock. “I need to get him home.”

Lestrade moved, but Gregson stood to block his way. “No. He was near the wolfsbane, meaning he’s probably not—“ he stopped, noticing something that Lestrade couldn’t and causing him to start to shift and change his view before Gregson moved out of the way. “Never mind.”

Sherlock gave him a mild glare before pulling John out after him, Lestrade walking up and asking, “Fine, what the bloody hell was that about?”

“That wolf was hit by silver,” Gregson said, as if that answered everything. When Lestrade gave him a pointed look, he rolled his eyes. “Look, if silver gets into the bloodstream or anything, it tends to leave its mark on the wolf. Usually they can’t turn into their werewolf form, but there’s a chance that it starts to act up again, or make them weak. He’s probably will end up with a relapse, or what looks like a relapse, and also feel really bad. No matter what, it ends up causing him a great deal of pain.” He motioned to where the werewolf was now starting to turn back and Dawkins was less antagonistic towards those he didn’t know. “That type of mixture is used to provoke werewolves in fighting rings or warzones. If a werewolf is exposed too much to wolfsbane or silver, though, it’s normally used as ‘bait’ because they have problems, usually not being able to turn to werewolf.” Lestrade blinked, surprised. He knew enough that the werewolf side of wolves was important as a sort of between-measure, a way for them to either become frightening or get rid of damage. That form was normally used in fights because the fights had to be quick and brutal, something that side allowed. The wolf side was that of a large wolf or dog, while the human side was, well, human-looking (save for the ears, the fur, markings, etc that some had to mark themselves as a werewolf). Wolves without that middle-form often showed more human or wolf characteristics instead, in both forms, but also weren’t able to deal with certain situations.

“poor bastard.”

\--

Sherlock managed to get John outside and further from the abandoned building before his wolf stumbled, the faint lines that indicated silver poisoning starting to fade and hiding under John’s jumper. His ears had drooped, and his eyes looked unfocused, and it worried Sherlock that he couldn’t tell how far the infection had spread or where it was coming from. John had been able to keep the werewolf version of Roy from attacking Presbury, despite the man’s attempts to antagonize both of them, and now was paying the price for it. Sherlock had managed to come along and find them through luck and his deductive abilities, and while his presence had managed to keep Roy and John upright and not in trouble, it had also meant that Presbury nearly had something to use against them, again.

He wasn’t surprised when the black car drove up, and oddly was more grateful about it then he should have been. The gratitude was a bit lowered as he saw Mycroft was already in the back, but right now the focus was on John, who all but promptly fell asleep against Sherlock when they were in the car.

“I’m impressed,” Mycroft said as he looked over at John then back to Sherlock, “considering his medical history, I didn’t think he’d remain upright for so long.” Sherlock frowned at him, unhappy with the conversation. He knew Mycroft well enough to know that he was genuinely focused on _that_ and not anything else. It irked Sherlock, for he found that the loyalty given to him by John was something that had, finally, gotten to him. What angered him was that he didn’t _know_ how to care for John in this state.

Mycroft let out a sigh and slowly turned the handle of his umbrella. “I take it you’ll return him? I didn’t spend all that money and influence to get something so…defective. He came so highly recommended as well.”

John whimpered, softly and almost undetected, Sherlock moving to stroke his hair as the sound died down. Mycroft watched without comment, apparently waiting for Sherlock to reply during the drive back.

“You did get him for me,” Sherlock pointed out once John had calmed, “and ultimately it’s my decision. Besides, for something so ‘defective’, he’s done remarkably well.”

“Has he?”

“Much of his failing was artificial, or something I orchestrated. Had he not been there, things could have gone badly. He’s valuable.” Sherlock took the moment to glare at his brother. “He’s mine. Don’t you dare think of taking him away.”

\--

John woke slowly, the headache gone and his shoulder having a dull ache, frowning as he saw he was alone in the main room. He recalled Sherlock, or at least Sherlock’s voice and scent, in the area the whole time he’d been ill, but now wondered if the lack of it was what woke him up. After being so near that concoction and working to keep Roy away from Presbury, he only knew that they’d gone home in a car, there had been a scent off Sherlock like…anger, and…something else, something odd that John thought might be possessiveness and caring. He had vague memories of waking and Sherlock helping him up the stairs, but not quite of reaching the sofa or the room he was in. He was also a bit confused, because he thought, earlier, he’d smelled/saw Mycroft. Silver relapse always made him woozy and confused.

John managed to sit up with a groan, his stomach growling as it demanded food, or at least something, but experience said—

“Here,” John looked up, seeing Sherlock walk in with a bag from shopping, putting a bottle of water in front of him, “I read you’d be hungry but need water instead.”

John nodded, opening the bottle and quickly emptying it, another placed before him as Sherlock took a seat nearby. “I had to go out for some, because I used the glasses for an experiment and they haven’t been cleaned yet, plus I wasn’t sure if tap water would work the same way. Also, I stopped by the Kennel.”

John paused, looking over at him as Sherlock pulled out a small grouping of papers. “It’s Monday, and I couldn’t just throw you out. Not when you’re so useful to me so…I finalized the paperwork. Well, I signed the paper, Mycroft already paid for most of it, and that reminds me, we should get you some more things. We can’t have one computer here, it’s just not something to be done and--.” He paused, looking over as John managed a smile before finishing up the bottle of water. Sherlock shifted before finishing, “Also, we need to move some more things out for the upstairs. I can’t have you here all night and I refuse to rearrange things so you sleep on the ground.” He paused again before saying, “Ms. Presbury pressed charges against her father, and was awarded custody of Roy, despite all that happened. Gregson found fighting ring paraphernalia at Mr. Presbury’s home, as well as various illegal items that he handed over to Lestrade. Roy’s better as well, and apparently won’t leave Ms. Presbury’s side, since she was hurt. Her fiancée doesn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s good,” John finally managed, getting a small smile from Sherlock.

“Now,” Sherlock said, standing and moving the bag, which appeared to be full of water and a few sports drinks, closer to John, “Don’t do something like that again, alright? I’d rather not have to worry about you, and it’s far from healthy.”

John chuckled and nodded, getting another bottle as Sherlock nodded back, shifting before taking off his coat and going into the kitchen, possibly to try and start another experiment. The smell of possessiveness and caring filled up the air, and John smiled, grateful that hadn’t been part of his confusion.


	3. "Working Class Dog" OR Work and the Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock adjusts to having a werewolf and all the rules that come with it, as well as all the problems, activists, and norms. Also, there is a case involving yellow spray paint and smuggling.

“ _Werewolves_ ,” the book that Sherlock was reading after a rather trying morning (honestly, the diamond thieves were archaic in their choice of assassins…upside was he got an actual scimitar out of it), “ _are a clever pet that needs constant stimulation. Because their wolf-nature makes them pack-oriented, a werewolf is never happy until it is giving a proper place and job within the household. This is why most werewolves, male and female alike, make for wonderful nannies and sitters of young children and remain companions to them until they are teenagers and even as adults. Households without children, or whose children have left home, must remember to use a werewolf to all their skills and ensure a werewolf’s day is a busy one_.”

Sherlock looked up as John came in, the werewolf looking wary and going over to sit at Sherlock’s feet, putting his head on Sherlock’s knee. John’s file had outlined how wolf-like he was, that besides being a champion sheep-herder in his own right, John only worked with those he trusted. Such trust was often given quickly, but also came with problems. Gregson had been nice enough to give Sherlock some literature on it, but also pointed out that John’s lineage, especially the blank spots from his mother’s Kennel-raised line, made it possible for either a human or a wolf to be in the mix. Either one, even generations back, normally resulted in wolves like John. It also, to some degree, affected how the silver bullet (which John had received while getting Human and Werewolf soldiers out of harm’s way) would react. The more Human lineage in a werewolf, the less likely they’d react badly to silver or other allergies that werewolves had. The close they were to wolves, though, the bag became more mixed. However, John’s reaction, as his medical record documented and from what Sherlock was able to gleam, said he was probably more wolf, as they tended to not use the werewolf side that often (as John hadn’t, even before he got shot) and that it’s loss only made traits appear more often, such as John acting more like a wolf in Human form, or becoming comfortable in wolf form far too easily.

Sherlock was still trying to figure out how to deal with the silent nightmares and night terrors that John had, which often caused more fur to grow and even a tail to show up, as well as leave John exhausted the next morning. So far, some violin solos had worked, at least.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked as he put the book aside, John remaining and silent for a moment until Sherlock put a hand on John’s head. John disliked petting unless he was ill, and his ears had shifted, showing that he was more angry/afraid then…well, angry/angry. Sherlock was quite happy that those ears and John’s face were so expressive, so Sherlock could know when he disliked something.

“I couldn’t get the food. The machine rejected the card, and I yelled at it.”

Sherlock smiled briefly at that, easily picturing the scene and why it would upset John. “I’ll give you mine. I got paid for the case with the diamonds.”

“You were attacked,” John said simply as Sherlock stroke a bit of his hair. This caused Sherlock to sigh, wondering if he’d be able to hide the fact from a Human and not a wolf.

“I didn’t expect him to attack me. I also didn’t expect him to be…well, I expected it, but not that he was able to get his sword in through Customs. I’m sure Mycroft will take care of that. You see it under the chair?”

“The place has that man’s scent,” John clarified, sitting up a little but not enough to dislodge Sherlock’s hand, “and you smell like you do when you’ve run or were in danger. Also, you mentioned getting paid.”

John had, after getting better, taken over cleaning and ensuring bills were paid on time. He also attempted to include Sherlock in things, making sure John didn’t throw out experiments as well as ensuring Sherlock knew where the money was going. Werewolves were pets, and thus while John had a sort-of account, it was only there for Sherlock to put money into if he had to go shopping, and the money was taken from Sherlock’s own account. Though he was heroic and had various medals, funds for the injury and treatments (mostly psychological) were given to Sherlock. The physical had been cared for at the RSPCA, and generally veteran wolves were given better care and their own accounts for later, in case they ended up as strays or for some other reason. Sherlock had made a point, when he signed the papers to fully own John, that the money for John’s treatments go to John’s accounts. However, he also knew that it often wasn’t enough, even for the little John did have to pay for on his own.

“John, do you think we should get you another job?”

John frowned at that, apparently confused. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock gave him a look that said he wasn’t normally this dense. “A job, a second job, something to use your medical skills in besides waiting for me or someone else to get hurt,” he watched John frown at that, as if trying to fully understand or trying to follow Sherlock’s logic. This was not good. What had Sherlock missed?

“Wolves can get jobs, so why not the clinic nearby?” Sherlock continued, “They’re nice enough--.”

“No,” John said, stopping and waiting to see what would come up next. Between when they’d first met and now, John had proven his bravery and loyalty, but never quite done more then was socially acceptable. Sherlock wanted to break that, as he disliked social niceties and considered them to be a pain sometimes and a hindrance the rest, but concerning wolves there were far too many rules, both in society and between them and their owners. Despite all that Sherlock sometimes did, John hardly raised his voice at him, or disagreed adamantly (save when it was medical or for Sherlock’s safety). So it was a bit confusing, as well as uncharted territory for Sherlock.

Sherlock reached down, picking up the book he’d gotten. “This says that wolves need something to do. That they need structure, and to be honest, you can’t get that with me and my cases. I didn’t bring you in on this case and you seemed to get stir-crazy.”

“I was still--.” John started to protest, stopping again as Sherlock waited, but when he didn’t continue, Sherlock said, “This says you need a _purpose_ in this house. You don’t listen to Mycroft if you can help it, and so you can’t just watch over me. Mrs. Hudson and the others don’t need someone to watch over them, and we’re not in the country or in area for you to herd sheep or children or whatever else needs someone to keep them in line. Lestrade has enough wolves for his team, and the police wouldn’t hire you because I own you and thus your loyalty is to me, as well as because of the silver poisoning. As interesting as a higher-level official might be, it won’t be anything to help you, and the lords and other such government officials treat their wolves as well as their servants and dogs, if not worst at times. I’d like you to at least have something to do, and the closest to home that won’t get you harassed is the clinic.”

John’s whole body stiff, seeming to vibrate with tension, and Sherlock waited for an answer to his reasoning. He’d not considered a reason for John to protest the suggestion, and he could go with John to the interview by himself. While Sherlock would have _liked_ to keep John to himself, he also didn’t want John to be as upset as he had last week. Yes, Sherlock knew much of it had been because John was recovering, but he also guessed some of it was from not having any real schedule.

Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance at the continued quiet before saying, “What’s wrong?”

John flinched at the tone, tension leaving a bit as he answered, “Just…I don’t think they’ll give me a job, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

The tall Human paused, looking over at John before motioning for John to sit in his usual chair. He  leaned forward to touch John’s large collar, noting the lack of a tan around his neck and some small hints that it’d been pulled a few times, as well as brought up short at least once in the distant past. “You won’t disappoint me, John. You couldn’t when I was trying to get rid of you, so I doubt you’ll do it now that I’m your owner.”

John managed a small smile before shifting nervously in the chair. “I can go back and try again…for the groceries.”

Sherlock considered a moment before nodding, going over to his laptop and checking his accounts to ensure that there was money on the card. “There is money, so hopefully the self check-out won’t be as bad.” John nodded, standing to go out as Sherlock left the computer on, picking up the book again to read some more and try to understand why John was not certain about taking a job that suited him well.

\--

The Tesco had a few families and their wolves, making John a little self-conscious that he was there himself but he noticed that the self-checkout, which all lone wolves used, was open and the one he’d been yelling at was currently covered over with a paper that said ‘Cash only’. There were a few werewolves who had cash only on them, and an ATM for them if they needed to use it, but John was always a little nervous about having money on him. Most of the wolves with cash were strays that come in and used it to buy food for themselves and their packs, and always ran the risk of being reported or caught by the RSPCA. Some strays enjoyed the freedom it gave them, and others because they disliked being ‘owned’, with still others were born on the streets and thus were strays by birth and not about to take up with their other werewolf counterparts.

This time, the machine he got did work, and he was able to get the food and milk required before heading off. It wasn’t that far to get back home and there were few delays, but as he headed up and put the groceries on the kitchen table, he smelled Sherlock’s change of mood.

John’s instincts were ones from a wolf trained to both guard and herd as well as heal. His time in the military, even before he’d been shot, had left him happy to be with both wolf and Human alike, but also he knew that he wasn’t the same as some of the others. Granted, only a few of the wolves were from areas outside of being bred and trained for it, but the fighting always got them to work as a unit. Sherlock, despite his attempts in the first week, was someone that made John feel important, like he was doing something for the greater good. It was a feeling he’d not had since he was shot – he couldn’t herd sheep anymore because his military training made him more likely, according to some, to kill a sheep instead of herd it, and he wasn’t owned by a medical group because they didn’t do that sort of thing. Most of the employed werewolves were clerical or worked specifically as healer-wolves, like the companion dogs that some insisted on having if a werewolf was too expensive. John’s psychological issues made him unable to work as either, apparently. Still, his instincts and training didn’t leave him, so he knew changes in attitudes and the linked scent to it, and was learning Sherlock’s rather quickly, as for a supposed psychopath, Sherlock had a great deal of feelings.

Earlier, Sherlock’s scent had been an attempt to keep calm and, after John revealed he knew about the fight, it had been restless and full of misunderstanding. He didn’t know why John felt odd about taking a job away from Sherlock, and now was sure that he could get John that job as well. The thought of having someone treat him more like a person and less like a werewolf was odd and was going to take getting used to.

Now, though, Sherlock’s mood was a little odd, resentful of something he had but also curious, the scent of someone who’s ready to go on a chase. Cats and some wilder animals had that same scent to them, but few were tinged with old malice and a feel of bad memories.

John managed to walk over and see that it was an e-mail which was causing Sherlock his odd mood-scent, his eyes between glaring and curious at the e-mail that had started with “Sherlock – How are you buddy? Been a while since…” before he lowered the laptop, looking back at John with some annoyance, more than his usual when John had done something Sherlock disliked, and causing John to back away, his head lowered slightly. “Sorry.”

John managed to put some of the groceries away before the mood-scent changed to excited, causing him to grab the leash he’d gotten from the Tesco that day and shove it into his pocket. “We need to go to the bank.”

John nearly froze at this, but grabbed his coat and went out with Sherlock, the trip to the bank turning out to be Shad Sanderson, a trading bank and not a normal one. This…wasn’t going to end well.

\--

There were more than a few things he saw when he entered, but the one that made him pause were two signs, one reading “Guide Dogs only” with the other reading “All Werewolves must be kept on a Leash”.

Sherlock paused long enough to spot a group standing further away, their werewolves on short leashes. The length wasn’t long enough for them to really gather together or talk, and it seemed quite sad after all he’d read and some he observed about werewolf behavior.

Sherlock felt a light tap on his arm, turning to find a leash held out to him, John giving him a guarded look. Sherlock had been out to restaurants and other places with John, and never run into this rule or noticed it. But now, with his own werewolf to care for, he was beginning to see why some advocated for loosened laws. He once more glanced at the small group of wolves, then back to John before taking the leash from him. Sherlock attached the clip to John’s collar, holding his own end and walking forward, now taking his time as he headed forward.

Sherlock didn’t relish meeting up with Sebastian again, as the man had not really been a ‘buddy’ in college, but simply one of the many who had either attempted to figure out Sherlock or called on him for petty problems. Sherlock had a mild dislike of people by then, but his current level mostly came from Sebastian and his ilk, as well as the ways they’d treated himself, Trevor, and Musgrave. Musgrave was more of a head-in-the-clouds painter and animal expert and Trevor was…well, Trevor. Like Sherlock, he had no real definition and his loss after the scandal had helped Sherlock’s final choice to drop university studies. Mycroft had been understanding and supportive, but Mummy had been confused until Mycroft explained it, and in a way that was better because Sherlock wasn’t sure how to speak to Mummy about some of these things, and left it to Mycroft.

It didn’t take long to get in to see Sebastian, who smiled at Sherlock, saying something about it being eight years as Sherlock noticed everything about Sebastian and that the eight years had only changed him from being a young man who used his father’s money to get what he wanted to a man who used his own money to get what he wanted. Sherlock didn’t hate him as he didn’t actively hate anyone, and he decided to see what he could get out of Sebastian as far as things were.

“This is my colleague,” Sherlock said, motioning to John.

“Werewolf, actually,” John said, causing Sebastian to look between them as if attempting to interpret the mixed signals and finally asking if they wanted anything before offering only Sherlock the chair. Manners said that, as John was the werewolf and werewolves were pets, he didn’t get a chair.

John stood, Sherlock silently seething and finally muttering that Sebastian had been doing well for himself. “Flying around the world twice in one month.”

Sebastian smiled, as if this was something that he needed to show off. “You’re doing that trick again, aren’t you?”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock said, defensive as Sebastian leaned back, looking over at the werewolf then to Sherlock again, “You always did it in Uni. We hated you for it, but tell me, come on, how’d you know?”

Sherlock couldn’t see John from where he sat, but he hoped to get more from him later anyway as he started to speak up, Sebastian asking, “Was it a stain on my tie from a special kind of ketchup or a mud stain on my shoe, what?”

Sherlock lied. He lied, and Sebastian took it for fact before he finally got to the business at hand.

\--

Sebastian was willing to pay. Sherlock had been paying attention to the whole area but was also steaming; a pot ready to boil over with each word or look Sebastian gave him.

At the amount, Sherlock said, “I don’t need incentive, Sebastian. Give it to my werewolf, he’ll take care of things,” and then began to storm off, dropping the leash as he did. John looked back, giving an apologetic smile before holding out his hand, the other man dropping the check into it before John followed Sherlock’s scent back up to the office area, holding the leash so it didn’t catch onto anything. He hoped Sebastian’s standing would allow this breaking of rules the once, and considering that Sherlock’s work relied mostly on his observation, he moved around the trading area, gathering in scents and attempting to pick out the one that he’d found in and near the  unused office.

Sherlock found him as they reached the same door, Sherlock taking up the leash again as they left, getting out of the main area before John asked, “Why were you trying to make him mad?”

“I don’t like Sebastian, never have, and there were few who actually liked me. Of the two, he’s insulted or attempted to humiliate both at least once and did the same with me.”

John let the subject shift to, “How did you know about the trip?”

“His watch,” Sherlock answered, stopping at the doors to take the leash off, unlike others who either waited until they were outside or didn’t at all, “the date’s wrong, and it’s a new watch that only came out this February, so he’s had it a month. What did you find?”

John waited until they were outside before he said, “There’s one specific scent that goes from the office to another, and one that disappears but not through any doors. I could’ve told him how it was done, but he wouldn’t have listened.”

“I should’ve, but the problem isn’t that we’ve solved it, it’s who the intended target was for, and if we can get the culprit as well. Scandal is one thing,” Sherlock turned with a smile, “but the case is another, and there aren’t many Van Coons in the phone book.” He held up the nameplate, John giving a smile as Sherlock hailed a taxi.

\--

The apartment complex was easy to get into, and Sherlock was soon into Van Coon’s apartment, John following after a moment’s pause. He looked around, sniffing slightly and shivering a little as he seemed to see or smell something that Sherlock couldn’t. He remained in the main room, his eyes locked on the door that, considering the layout of the woman’s apartment upstairs, would mean it was the bedroom. The wood doors were not solid, and Sherlock easily broke in. The other door, with the extra balcony that they couldn’t reach, was closed, and on the bed was their dead banker.

_Crap_ , Sherlock thought as he went back to where John was, looking around the area as Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade, reporting the murder while looking at the ground and the area. Whoever had done this was a professional, and he was sure that there was something John smelled and didn’t like about this.

He got off the phone and touched John’s arm, getting his attention. “What’s wrong?”

John shifted, looking worried before he said, “Just…there’s a scent. A different one, and I can’t quite place what it is. It’s not…” he shook his head, attempting to figure things out or at least how to put everything into words. “It’s another werewolf, but a different type, and far more dangerous. He smells like a pack-wolf.”

\--

Detective Inspector Dimmock was the type of Yarder that Sherlock disliked. None of his men were wolves, despite policy about that particular pack, and he was quick to dismiss Sherlock and the whole case as a simple suicide. Even without John’s wolf-senses, Sherlock easily made a case about the angle of the bullet, especially with it being on the wrong side of the head for a gunshot and with no signs the pistol in the man’s hand had been fired.

They left after Sherlock had, with as much control as he could, just asked Dimmock “how did they get in” before storming out, John following behind him. John was worried, Sherlock’s smell full of anger and annoyance as he caught a cab to go speak to Sebastian. John already didn’t like this case, the smell from inside the locked door bothering him greatly. It was that of a wolf, one with a pack, but there were also signs of something that he hadn’t smelled before. It worried him, as there were few smells of wolves he didn’t know, and this one was making some part of his brain notice, worrying about it and what it meant.

The restaurant was upscale but also allowed wolves in without a leash, which John could tell made Sherlock happy. The rules at the bank had gotten him shaken, and it made John wonder about the Holmes’ childhood. Had they not grown up around werewolves at all? It might explain some of Mycroft’s general hostility towards John, or at least why he employed tactics that were a bit outdated. Sadly, the information from Dimmock’s report shot down Sherlock’s assurances that it was murder, and made the meeting take a turn for the worse.

“I hired you to a job,” Sebastian said, even after Sherlock tried the old pet name that he went by in Uni, “Don’t get sidetracked.”

The two watched him leave, John frowning as he muttered, “I thought bankers weren’t supposed to be heartless bastards.” Sherlock smiled a little at that, grateful for John and his ability to at least lessen the tension before he said, “I need more information if I’m going to solve this, and our one lead is dead. The only thing left is the code…” They headed out, Sherlock stopping the cab as they passed a nearby surgery, telling it to wait as he went inside, coming out moments later. “That should help.”

“What?” John inquired, confused.

“Tomorrow, we have an interview.”

\--

Doctor Sarah Sawyer was a plain sort of woman, a doctor who had trained to be a GP and was normally in charge of less experienced doctors. Sherlock had found and made a copy of John’s training, feeling all of it would, in the end, get John hired. He’d admitted to himself he didn’t want to give John away, but rather to have him out to do what he was trained to do, namely help people in a medical fashion. John went in to speak to Doctor Sawyer for a few minutes while Sherlock sat outside, thinking as he watched some of the people around him. Even those who were sick in the local surgery were helping as he attempted to think, trying to figure out what he should do about Dimmock and the case in general. A news update on his phone showed an eerily similar murder, this time of a reporter, and left Sherlock to only guess at the connection for now, at least until he had more data.

John walked out a few minutes later, looking a little worried as Doctor Sawyer motioned Sherlock to join her. He gave John a reassuring smile before following her into the office and closing the door.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, motioning for him to take a seat, “While I appreciate the offer of letting us use your werewolf for his medical skills, I’m not sure if we can.”

He frowned. “You’re short on doctors, so I don’t see the problem.”

She looked surprised but recovered quickly, the smile still on her face. “It’s just that we can’t employ anyone currently, and we’ve never really thought of taking on a werewolf. Most are not…well, most medical training they get is for combat zones, this will hardly be stimulating for him and not at all similar to what he learned.”

Sherlock looked through everything in his view, then finally back to her, his eyes narrowed. “It’s not that either. He was trained at Bart’s, and is overqualified for the job anyway. He should get it easily, and it’s not for the money that I’m asking you to take him on. I’m asking so he won’t be bored and will have something to do, differences in where he worked before or not. My work is busy but at times it lags…I’d rather he not be bored with me and in a similar bad mood.” He waited as she shifted, obviously about to use some other excuse before his mind caught all the signals. It took longer than he liked, due to his newness at being an owner, but it angered him all the same. “If you don’t want to hire him because he’s a werewolf, you should’ve just stated so and we would have left. But not wanting to hire him because you think that will _help_ him become an equal to Humans is just idiotic.” She blinked at him, unable to really counter as he stood and walked out, John standing and going after him quickly. Sherlock’s mind, hating to dwell on anger and what he had seen, instead turned to the case and the two dead men.

That meant speaking to Dimmock. That meant a _case_ , something to follow up on and figure out. That meant, at least, a beginning of a lead. He’d asked John, as well as read a little, about the pack mentality. He’d also learned that whatever the werewolf was, it’s scent was off in a way that made John unhappy, almost nervous. The wolf was part of a pack, that much was certain, but the pack itself was quite confusing.

The book stated something similar, that pack mentalities allowed for the animals to have a hierarchy. Alpha males were the ones in charge, normally the bread-winners or ones who had jobs, while betas and below made up the bulk. Also, Alpha male wolves reacted different to Human women than Alpha female wolves – a Human female could easily approach a stray with money and such, whereas a Human male would have to show he wasn’t a threat. The reverse was true of Alpha female wolves.

John was a bit of a Beta wolf, deferring to Sherlock or others in authority, but in some instances he _could_ become or display Alpha-mannerisms. It was another trait of werewolves in general – their hierarchy was more fluid than a wolf or dog pack, and depended on the situation. Each deferred to the Alpha with the ability, making them more adaptable than wolves, but a bit less adaptable than humans.

Still, the confusion and scent was enough to convince Sherlock that there was a case, and they needed to follow through on it. If anything, it would get him to stop thinking of DI Dimmock or Doctor Sawyer.

\--

Sherlock’s mood was a little better when they got to the library. John was quite sure that it had something to do with Dimmock’s attitude and how much he had to use to convince him that Brian Lukis, the dead journalist, was similar and, within five minutes, he was gone again and with all the information. The few wolves that had been in the office were friendly to Dimmock, which convinced John that the new Detective Inspector’s reasoning for not having wolves on his team was a bit more complicated then originally though. The Scotland Yard wolves didn’t trust him enough to open up to him fully – Sherlock solved crimes and was as indifferent to them as to Humans in the Yard, but that didn’t mean John was _pack_ – but their looks were enough for John to notice and mention.

He did mention the odd scent, attempting to describe it. One, who’d managed to see the body, mentioned it as well. All in all, none of them had scented such a thing before, and it confused them all to no end. Still, Dimmock gave them access to Lukis’ home, and Sherlock was quick to find what he needed.

The library was quiet and had few in, the woman recognizing Lukis as coming in regularly for various books but not knowing if he’d come in that night.

John had been ready to pull out the leash but luckily, the library was open to werewolves, many of the strays needing the warmth or actively reading up to train themselves. Sherlock allowed him to lead, going by scent before John found the other cipher. The two frowned, as it wasn’t as in plain sight and required you to pull out one of the two books that Lukis had to see it something was there, then move more of the books. Sherlock asked one of the librarians about it, the volunteer recalling that the books had been on the floor, but only a few and not enough to cause them to notice the sign. Sherlock thought as they left, attempting to recreate that night. Without the smell of Lukis, John couldn’t tell him if he’d panicked at the library or not, and they were outside before Sherlock said, “Was there anything like panic back there?”

John frowned, attempting to recall before shaking his head. “No…” he moved again, blinking when he smelled the tangible fear. “Here, but not in the library. Does that mean the cipher isn’t perfected, or requires something else?”

Sherlock nodded, heading away as he thought, “All things require ciphers, but most are mathematical, or at least computer-generated. This is an ancient one, so we’ll have to look deeper for it, and things won’t be as easy.” He seemed happy about that, despite not showing it, and John smiled unconsciously as he followed. “He finds the cipher probably where he expects it, where he went to get a library book. He gets that one, and while leaving checks what it means. When we got to where he figured the meaning, he panicked and ran. Van Coon must have had the key in his office somewhere, and was able to see, read, and panic before Lukis did. Both thought they were safe in their above-ground flats…they didn’t think there would be danger.” He shook his head. “Van Coon should’ve thought. A message, that far up?”

John tried to recall the smell and state of Van Coon’s office, though he hadn’t gotten a good look of the area, as they walked back while Sherlock muttered, “I need advice.”

“What?”

“You heard me, I’m not saying it again.”

John smiled, as Sherlock wasn’t truly irritated but sounded like that on being reminded that he’d said it out loud to someone who thought he never needed such things. “What about?”

“Mostly painting,” Sherlock added as they went to the museum, and then turned away from it and down a back-alley. John wrinkled his nose at the smell of aerosol spray paint that was now starting to coat the walls and obscure most other smells because of it. He wondered if the Human taggers realized how much werewolves hated this way of showing off, or how much they would joke about the taggers really being wolves that thought pissing on the wall just wouldn’t do it.

The man was tagging already, or at least starting, a bag full of spray paint at his feet and the young man looking over to them before relaxing a little upon seeing Sherlock. John had guessed, after learning more about Sherlock and his knowledge, or the extensive one he had of criminals, that he had many friends among the petty criminals and others due to either letting them off for small crimes (like tagging) or getting them off larger charges (such as getting Angelo off for murder when he was stealing). John stayed close enough to listen but far enough to not be threatening, the young man’s stance saying he knew of some dangerous wolves and wasn’t going to take the risk of John being one of them.

“I have two minutes before a community cop comes around that corner, so can we do this while I work?” the young man demanded, Sherlock holding out his phone to show the man photos of the spray paint from the bank and then from the library.

“Know the artist?” Sherlock asked, the young man stating he knew the paint and would have to ask around for similar tagging when both looked up, John’s hearing stating that the cop had appeared.

Sherlock and the young man ran, John starting to follow them when he heard the commanding tone of “Halt!” His training said for him to do so, while his mind said it’s simply easier for him to not listen and keep running. He faltered instead, having tossed the spray paint that the young man had given him into the bag before getting grabbed by the first cop, coughing as he tugged the collar up short.

“I said halt.”

John did, quiet as the other cop came up and the first one drug him back to the area. “Now, what were you doing here?”

“Following my owner,” John answered.

“And what was _he_ doing?”

“Talking to a friend,” John answered, the bag picked up as the officer said, “Just that? He wasn’t one that ran off, was he?”

John didn’t answer, being taken out of the alley as the officer called in the tagging and reading off John’s collar over the radio. Without his owner there to vouch for him, John was to be sent back to the Kennels, but this time, to the Pound.

\--

The London Kennels were well-maintained and housed most of the werewolves up for sale, many currently walking around in either Human or Wolf form and looking over when they saw Sherlock walk by, tails wagging and a few men and women trying to get attention. Many of the children and younger wolves ran right up to the gate dividing the pathway and stood up, the children stating how good they were and the wolves acting more like dogs then wolves. He gave them all a smile, saying to the person who came up to meet him, “I’m here to collect John Watson.”

“Oh, of course sir,” the man said, the others still following Sherlock until he went inside, “You’ll have to forgive them, the recent economy has made it hard for people to buy or even keep a werewolf, so we’re getting near-full, and with more coming back hurt and needing homes…” Sherlock nodded, taking in the banter as he looked around, recalling that John Watson had been here, and therefore his sister might be here as well.

The Kennels were divided into three main buildings that focused on a large plaza in the center: Adoption and Boarding, Veterinary, and the Pound. The first held werewolves for adoption or if they needed to be put up for a few days or weeks, the second was a sort of hospital/hospice for wolves that got hurt, and the last was for wolves that were imprisoned or didn’t fit the other two. The RSPCA offices were between the three, allowing for easy access to all of them on a case-by-case basis. Other animals were in a smaller shelter nearby that also had its own veterinary area due to the lack of many people getting cats or dogs, as werewolves were simply much more useful.

The Pound area was closed off and reminded Sherlock of a sort of detention center that had only been half thought out, the cages and areas almost too small for some of the men, women and wolves who stalked around them. John was leaning against one wall of his cell and arguing with that Sarah woman, as well as one of the officers.

“I told her that,” John was saying as he noticed Sherlock coming up, the officer frowning when he saw him and Sherlock returning an annoyed stare.

“You his owner?” the officer asked, Sherlock looking him up and down before turning back to John as he answered, “Yes. Is there a problem?”

Sarah answered, oddly enough, “He’s being charged for withholding evidence, about a tagger near the museum.”

Sherlock nodded. “I asked him to look into something, and we found who we were looking for. I can give you the name, but if you could wait a week, there’s a murder I’m investigating and he’s helping.” Sherlock pulled out his card, handing it to the officer, “The tagger might be able to give me more information, and won’t be back in the area anyway until next week to finish his masterpiece. You can get him, but for now I need him asking questions I can’t.”

The officer held up the card, stating, “I’ll call this in, to check, alright?” before walking off, though Sherlock was sure he was intimidated enough to not do as thorough of a check as he normally would, and turned his attention back to Sarah Sawyer. “What, exactly, is your purpose here?”

Sarah bristled, shifting before saying, “I came to bail out John, but he said he would only be bailed out by his owner or a relative of the owner.”

“It’s allowed,” John pointed out, Sherlock still having to learn all the laws concerning wolves, as most of his revolved around gangs of wolves or fights, but not their rights. He was beginning to think it was only a little better then dogs, and those were decently high in some areas.

“You shouldn’t have to--.” Sarah started, the officer coming back and she stopping as he did.

“I spoke to Inspector Dimmock, he said to let you go but to put you on warning, and also that he has to stay on leash for the week, and come back for an ASBO if your man doesn’t show up.” Sherlock thought of arguing but knew it would only make things worse, instead nodding and taking the paperwork as Sarah blinked, glaring at him.

“You’re going to _leash him_?”

“It’s either that or leave him here,” Sherlock muttered as he finished and handed the information back, the officer giving him a bag with John’s things in it and Sherlock retrieving the leash. “I told you already, if you want to help them, don’t deny them jobs or get into a fit because I tried to follow the rules. Follow the rules, but bend them.”

The officer had either heard it before or was in agreement, as he made no statement of it as Sherlock started to leash John, then paused. “I needed him to retrieve something at Scotland Yard and meet me where our information joined. Perhaps there, I could put him on the leash?”

The officer shook his head, apologetic. “Law’s the law, Mr. Holmes. If he’s not on the leash, I have to bring him back in until I get the culprit.”

Cursing his luck, Sherlock stormed out, John having to hurry to keep up.

\--

Sherlock was able to get John the datebook and had him reading it in the lobby, the leash attached to the bench, while he looked into Van Coon’s schedule and receipts from the week before he died. His secretary, a pretty blond woman who was obviously having an affair with Van Coon and knew it wasn’t anything serious, working through her grief and helping him how she could. He was grateful for that, searching until he found the one missing link and hurrying out, grabbing John as they rushed to the area of the café, Sherlock muttering to himself until he stopped, John hitting his back as he held up the journalist’s date book.

They both came to the same area near Piccadilly tube station. The journalist’s diary had an address, the lady inside watching them as Sherlock let John off the leash, recalling vaguely that while inside a small shop like this, it was better to not have a leash on your wolf unless you enjoyed paying for damaged items. The woman behind the counter tried to sell John a Lucky Cat, John shaking his head as Sherlock looked at the remakes of the Terracota Soldiers before John called him over to show him a faux porcelain teacup.

More importantly, what was under the teacup…

It was a number system, a cipher based on the Suzhou system and currently used by street traders to mark the prices of their items. Both men had brought something back, and both men had known the code. The problem, then, was what the numbers corresponded to, and why one man waited until he was out of the library to panic at the two numbers.

Sherlock took John to eat across the street, Sherlock trying the new tactic of speaking to John as he asked questions. The talking helping him think things through as he explained it to John, the pieces falling into place in rapid succession instead of somewhat slowly, or at least as slowly as they could in other cases. John asked not-so-obvious and sometimes obvious questions, questions that Sherlock realized he didn’t ask himself sometimes because he was too far ahead to go back.

His mind focused as John started to eat, the puzzle of why both men were killed as well as how solved, but the full ‘why’, as well as who was responsible and what had been stolen (as well as by which of the two dead men) was eating at him and it wouldn’t be a finished case until he knew—

His mind focused again, this time on one thing. “When was the last time it rained?”

\--

“I’m not going to let you break into a flat,” John argued as they went around the back of the apartment buildings, “when there might be a werewolf in there. I’m especially not letting you when I’ve been leashed after you left me with the blame.”

Sherlock looked ready to argue but stopped, frowning before he jumped up, grabbing the fire escape and pulling it down low enough for John to jump up first, Sherlock following a little later as John slipped out of his shoes and shifted, sniffing around the area and growling when Sherlock got closer to the window. Sherlock blinking and backing up at the sound before John jumped in, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t follow him or, at least, that he would be smart enough to let him smell around the place before he did.

Sherlock had been right: whoever had lived here wasn’t around, not for days, and the mixed smell of fear and danger made his fur stand on end, his eyes darting all over for clues of when someone had been here and why.

The sound of Sherlock going back down the escape ladder calmed John enough, right before he realized the smell of the other wolf, the odd one, was suddenly much stronger. John slowly paced, his brain attempting to work everything out before it suddenly all connected.

He smelled a strange city, and while it smelled a lot like the Chinese food places, those also had the smell of London. It also carried the smell of various foreigners who came in for the Kung Pao chicken and other such. But on top of that was a smell that John suddenly knew, and feared because of what it meant.

The attack was almost a relief, ending the tension, John snapping and biting as the cloth got around his neck, attempting to pull him up as he kicked and snarled. The other finally tossed him down on the ground, hard enough to make him let out a whimper-cry of pain, the cloth rope choking and making it hard to see. But he noted that the one above him never turned into wolf form, was always Human, and saw the few marks that told John his fears were correct. John managed a snarl, startling the other wolf before he raced out, leaving John alone and struggling to regain his breath.

There was a buzzing sound, Sherlock’s voice causing John to shift back to human, coughing as he got his owner in. The tall Human looking him over before handing back his pants and shoes, looking around the apartment as John redressed.

“You should’ve let me come in with you,” Sherlock said, picking up the black origami flower that was on the floor and examining it.

“He would’ve attacked you instead,” John tried to say, though most of it was obscured by coughing as he got his breath back, “He wasn’t trying to kill me, anyway.”

Sherlock gave him a look that said he was lightheaded.

“He wasn’t. He would’ve tried harder, at least.”

Well, all of that would have sounded convincing, except he was coughing so much, and possibly signs of his near-strangulation were still fresh. Sherlock had only just gotten used to the idea that John could help out, and the fright with the silver poisoning had not helped his mindset of ‘how to keep your wolf safe’.

“Her name,” Sherlock told John as he dressed and recovered, “was Soo Lin Yao.” He looked around, “Someone else broke in and knocked over the vase, and not in wolf form…” he looked around the rest of the flat, checking on the clothing and milk before adding, “small but strong, size eight feet, has small, strong hands…so he is our acrobat.”

“He broke in,” John managed, “and she’s not been here for three days. The scent’s about that old, but his isn’t.”

“You still should’ve let me in,” Sherlock said, “he left the window open because he was still here…you knew that.”

John glared at him as he pointed to an envelope that Sherlock had. “What’s that?”

“What are you hiding?”

“You first,” John said, having recovered enough to talk normally before he motioned to the door. They were outside when Sherlock showed him the envelop and note, directing them to the National Antiques Museum.

“We talk to Andy, and we might figure out more about her and where she might be hiding. Now,” he said as they walked towards the museum area again, “what did you find out?”

John tried to hang back, but Sherlock had already put the leash back on and was looking at him expectedly, John stepping up to keep up before saying, “Just…that he’s not a normal wolf.”

“How so?”

“He was bitten,” John said, feeling ill thinking about the implications and the whole scenario, “he was once Human.”

\--

Sherlock stopped to get John a pay-as-you-go phone, realizing that their work would, at one point, require him to be either away or need to take photos, and this was the cheapest, easiest solution. The museum was open and gave up a good deal of information, Andy being helpful and obviously pining for his lost lust interest (Sherlock refused to believe in love, thus they were obvious lust interests). The yellow paint on a statue near where Soo Lin worked last stated her reason for leaving…she knew the code, and had run the same day the bitten werewolf had turned up in London.

It raised the question for Sherlock, though, about people who were bitten against those born a werewolf. It was obvious that John was upset over the implications of the other wolf having been bitten, and unluckily Sherlock knew little information about that, besides the fact that few werewolves could transmit lycanthropy on, but the bite did often result in a werewolf being put down, or the Human being very ill. It was one of the reasons why the Yard’s wolves had to be so well-trained, especially those working with the crimes division.

It might also explain the fact that John hadn’t been able to identify the scent right away. If transmission was rare now, due to breeding and the like, and also rare in the wild, then what type of werewolf was needed to transmit the disease?

\--

Soo Lin was _clever_ , and Sherlock seemed to enjoy the hunt for her, especially after they found the large piece of cipher in the train yard. John had taken a photo of it, though he’d fallen asleep for about twenty minutes as Sherlock looked through the books from Van Coon and Lukis’ apartments. While they knew the numbers to a degree, Sherlock hadn’t found the corresponding book yet.

Another trip to the Museum had given Sherlock the information he needed, and they soon were sitting in the back of the closed museum, speaking to Soo Lin about the Tong she had once belonged to. She had looked scared, showing them a faded tattoo in black ink on her heel, stating it was from the Black Lotus Tong and the one after her was _Zhizhou,_ the Spider. He’d been initiated into the Black Lotus after receiving a werewolf’s bite.

John looked uncomfortable, watching the woman with concern, obviously glad that she could survive this long. Sherlock listened intensely, hoping she could help them, and more pieces falling into place as Soo Lin admitted the Spider was really her brother, who had fallen under the power of the Black Lotus general called Shang, the Human who choose the group and had them bitten. That revelation was one that made John almost grown in anger, Soo Lin flinching and Sherlock’s werewolf quickly stopping and silently giving her an apologetic look.

Sherlock showed Soo Lin the printout of the photo John had taken, and what little he did know. She was about to get the basis of the cipher when the lights when out, causing John to freeze and Soo Lin to shiver in fear. “He’s found me.”

John shifted into his wolf form and was out the door before Sherlock could stop him, forcing him to grab the information and Soo Lin. Sherlock moved her away from the door and into a darker corner of the museum, the sound of a loud growling and then gunshots making both of them jump a little. Why wasn’t the man using his wolf form? Was that simply something that bitten wolves did? He’d been too busy trying to decipher the code that he hadn’t gotten to reading up on those that became werewolves through bites.

Sherlock looked at Soo Lin, who appeared to be as worried as he was, and followed her gaze to the small stack of books. Despite the prospect of knowing the code, it was simply easier and better for her to be alive and in police protection, then dead and with the code known.

“Stay here,” he muttered, his need to ensure John’s safety starting to outweigh Sherlock’s own safety. Soo Lin had hidden in the museum and been able to avoid the Black Lotus for this long…hopefully her luck would remain. “Bolt the door after me.”

Sherlock raced out, ducking behind a statue as shots were fired towards him, some of the marble shattering at the impact as he looked for John’s wolf form. The sounds and chaos made it hard for him to keep track of where everyone was, and he had to focus on the attack and trajectory so he wouldn’t get killed, but also so he could find John.

There were more shots, but no other sound of activity or the sound of wolves fighting. Sherlock quickly ran up and around, spotting the attacker and following him into one of the anthropology areas, hearing a few more shots as he yelled back, “Be careful, some of these skulls are two hundred million years old!”

Silence followed, Sherlock managing to yell a “Thanks” before frowning, realizing the quiet was not a good sign. He slowly went out, hearing a sudden, single gunshot. Despite the chaos and everything else, he was able to follow the echoes back to a door that should’ve been bolted.

“Damn it,” he cursed, running back down to where Soo Lin should have been. Instead, he found John, in wolf form, whimpering as he looked over at Soo Lin’s dead body, a black paper origami lotus in her hand.

\--

Dimmock was, at least, helpful after a murder investigation also added in smuggling to his work, though he seemed to find John being on a leash a rather funny sight. John seemed to be taking the death of Soo Lin personally, all but growling at Dimmock when he made the joke and not bothering to apologize, though he did appear upset. Dimmock, at least, seemed to sense the werewolf’s distress and apologized, especially after he learned that the killer was a young, bitten man. Bites and created werewolves were so uncommon, apparently, that learning someone had turned that was, instead of being born into it, was almost frightening. Sherlock vowed to research it when this was done, Mrs. Hudson frowning at them for leaving all the books out but helping to put some away and making them tea for the late night.

“Oh, you had a lady caller here too…Sarah her name was,” Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock, who was reading through the copies in an attempt to find one that matched up, “she said she wanted to talk to you a bit more about letting John work?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock said, somewhat dismissively. He’d used up most of his ability to deal with dull people while speaking to Molly and Dimmock, and didn’t want to think or deal with Sarah at this point in time. John looked a little hopeful, and quickly went back to reading, halfway through falling asleep then jerking himself awake. Despite being a wolf, he still had a sleep schedule, and had already complained that neither had gotten the amount they needed.

John fell asleep somewhere around 5 am, slumped over the table next to one of the less-useful books. Sherlock had continued, attempting to find the right book in the number of copies the two had or took out of the library. Unluckily, few of the words lined up or made sense to scare the two men. So far he’d found “cigarettes”, “animal”, and various others that wouldn’t scare anyone into locking their doors and hoping for the best.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door around 8am, momentarily breaking Sherlock’s concentration, John shaking himself awake suddenly as she said, “Sherlock, that woman’s here again.”

He sighed, looking through a few items as Sarah Sawyer came up. He noticing that she must have taken the day off, her eyes on John first then to Sherlock briefly. He wanted to continue working before she said, “I’ve considered your position, and am willing to give John a try.”

John blinked himself awake a little more, Sherlock looking over with annoyance that came out as he said, “Have you now?”

“Um…” John swallowed, apparently noting (or, at least, smelling) the tension in the air, “I’m make tea, shall I?”

Sherlock went back to the book, searching through for the page and for the word as Sarah moved to where John had been, looking at the information, Sherlock glaring at the back of her head as she said, “So, this is some sort of code, is it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply, opening up the next book to find “Fish” was the first word on the fifteenth page.

“And have you given your wolf anything to eat recently?” she asked as she accepted the tea. John and Sherlock blinked, looking surprised she wanted to bring that up after offering John a job. Considering John had only recently woken up, it was a bit surprising.

“It’s fine,” John started, Sarah ignoring him and rounding on Sherlock before demanding, “Do you even care that you’re abusing your wolf? That by law I can take him away from you until you prove that you’re—“

Sherlock looked up, angry at the continued attack. “He said he’s fine, and you can’t take him away just because you think I’m hurting him. Now, this will catch someone who killed three times already, and I’d rather you _weren’t here_.”

John backed away, to Sherlock in a way that said he didn’t want to deal with this before breakfast. John was never in a mood for any of Sherlock’s tempers before breakfast, and Sherlock respected that. However, apparently Sarah thought it meant something else.

Sarah turned, grabbing the leash and John, earning a loud protest from John as she said to a confused Sherlock, “I’ve seen enough. I won’t let you hurt him anymore.” Sherlock started forward, Sarah putting a piece of paper down on the table next to the picture John had taken and that had been left in the museum, “We’ll call you for your court date.”

“Stop it, he’s not—“ John protested yet again, but with the leash on and him unable to take off his collar, he was forced to follow Sarah out, protesting vocally all the way.

Sherlock watched them go, reading through the paper. It appeared Sarah Sawyer was a volunteer with the RSPCA, and that she had already put in something about her suspicion that Sherlock was abusing John. From the scribbled signature, it looked like she didn’t go through Gregson, but rather someone new. Whatever her plan was, or how she thought John was being abused due to two random meetings, Sherlock didn’t know.

His eyes caught the photo, and froze, now torn. Soo Lin had started to translate the words. She had two words, meaning there were _two_ that he could work with, but…but if he didn’t follow John, who knew the scent…

_John can care for himself._

The image of how sick John had been after the meeting with Presbury came into his mind, but he knew also that going after John would just leave Sarah to try another line to try and take John away. Sherlock couldn’t allow that right now. He could easily deal with Sarah and her accusations after he’d finished this up.

He had to deal with the murderers, give it over to Dimmock, and hope that John would be fine, and that Scotland Yard didn’t mess this one up. Oh, how he wished Lestrade wasn’t busy!

\--

The queue was normally very long, and Sarah terribly overworked, but after she’d returned and put John into one of the empty rooms, the stream of people was steady, instead of pressed. Sarah was a bit worried, and continued to be as her lunch break approached. She managed to get a look when she saw the door to John’s room open. He was motioning out a woman with a young girl, neither showing any signs of being werewolves, before giving the girl a smile, speaking quietly to the mom, and going back inside with another client, a strawberry-blond werewolf guide and her Human following after him.

John was working. Sarah blinked, watching for a moment again before trying to decide if she should barge in and stop him, ordering him to get the sleep he needed, or just record it as continued abuse. He obviously thought he needed to continue to act like a Human when he wasn’t, and this meant that his owner was allowing the behavior. It was, in Sarah’s mind, as silly as allowing cats to claw furniture. Boundaries needed to be drawn, and that Sherlock character wasn’t doing it.

Realizing she couldn’t barge in, Sarah went to get lunch. She was sure that John wasn’t getting the right diet either, and returned with time to spare. The guide wolf walk out with her Human as John followed, speaking to the Human and wolf, “Now, Mr. Shalto, you should use a humidifier during the summer months or, at least, on drier days. Also, you should cut down on your smoking…a friend of mine uses nicotine patches, but try to also take the same breaks you use for smoking. Breathing helps out with quitting.” He smiled at the wolf, “I’m sure you’ll be able to help him, and they allow us to buy patches, but speak to the regular doctor before you leave to get a prescription.”

The wolf nodded, smiling happily, “Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been very kind.” Mr. Sholto nodded, shaking John’s hand as well before the two headed to the pharmacists, Sarah walking up as John moved back into the room. She put down the food she’d gotten for him, the classic balance for werewolves, before closing the door and looking at him sadly.

“You’re here to rest, not to…” she waved around the room, “It’s not normal for a wolf to take on jobs like this. They’re supposed to be--.” She stopped, sighing as his look, a little annoyed at his attitude. “Just stay here and don’t do anything. Get some rest after you finish eating, and stop acting like you’re…”

“Like I’m Human?” John demanded. “Sherlock will enjoy learning he was wrong about you, or maybe he was right, and you actually think you’re helping me.”

Sarah glared at him. “None of you know what you want, and you seem to want us to give it to you. Better that we just throw you out instead of having to act as your babysitter. Now _stay_.” She finished, turning and walking out, closing the door and telling the receptionist, “He needs to rest, so don’t send anyone else in, alright?”

The receptionist nodded slowly, and Sarah started her day again when John’s owner, the Sherlock bloke, walked in with a small smile and held up a slightly battered invitation. “Shall we try this again? I’m Sherlock, and I’d like to take you out.”

\--

John shifted in his place behind Sarah and Sherlock, wishing that they wouldn’t treat him like this, though he supposed it was part of Sherlock’s bid to get him back. So far, Sherlock had been nicer to Sarah then he was to Lestrade or Donovan, even buying her some popcorn while they headed into the main area. Sarah still had a strong hold on his leash, and Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him for the time being, reminding John of before the Presbury case and his relapse. Sherlock kept his eyes and attention on Sarah, talking a little as they reached the main room, John wrinkling his nose at the scents he caught upon entering and his mind suddenly clarifying when he recognized the scent of the wolf that attacked him in Soo Lin’s flat.

John reigned in the panic he felt as the show started, Sherlock explaining the tricks to Sarah as John looked around, shifting forward. If he got in place next to Sarah, he might be able to help Sherlock explore more...

The acrobats and audience were equally enthralled with each other, the woman that was center-stage showing off a hair-trigger crossbow before the escape artist was brought up, John reaching up to remove the leash slowly, moving up so it was slack and then kneeling, putting it silently on the floor as he went around the crowd and got into the dressing rooms in the back, his nose and eyes telling him that these were the smugglers, or at least the ones from China, and the metallic smell of the spray paint he’d followed on the tracks and that had been found in the areas helping him find the can as he listened for any other sounds, finding at least two more of the same cans before starting to head back out, hiding the can when he heard, “And now, perhaps a volunteer from the audience? Yes, you sir. Tell us your name, please.”

“Sherlock,” John froze at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, at the hints of fear in it, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes,” the woman said, “Perhaps you’d like to call out your mutt so we can properly do this?”

\--

 The curtain moved away, John jumping down from the closed stage as Sherlock gave him a small smile. The knives against his throat weren’t close enough to draw blood yet, but were within a dangerous area, and the rest of the spectators were behind held back by various guns. Sherlock had spotted two that were obviously Dimmock’s, so that meant the new DI had taken his advice. The problem, though, was what Dimmock would do about the current hostage situation.

Considering Dimmock didn’t use wolves, it would be hard for him to rush in, but Sherlock’s main concern was that Sarah was strapped up in front of the hair-trigger crossbow. Still, at least one of the men was now sporting a bruised eye from his attempts to get her into that position.

“Ah, there you are,” the woman, probably General Shang, said to John as one of the men started to move forward, John glaring at him in such a way that told Sherlock he was the Spider. “We missed you earlier.”

“Let them go,” John demanded, “I’ll get you what you want, just let them go.”

“No,” the woman said, “You will take me to it, and then, when I am satisfied, I might allow them to leave.”

John glared at her, looking at the others before his eyes snapped back to her. “I’m not letting a Human who keeps rabid dogs come with me.”

Sherlock frowned at the slang, guessing that the ‘rabid dogs’ meant the ones who’d been bitten and turned into werewolves. Considering a few of them growled at him for the word, Sherlock knew he was right.

Shang smiled at John, “Very good, dog. But if you do not take me, I will demonstrate what will happen to those who _can’t_ escape,” she motioned to the gagged and tied up Sarah, “You wouldn’t let your other owner to come to such a fate, would you?”

John didn’t argue semantics, which Sherlock was grateful for, but instead cast his eyes to Sarah, the hostages, then Sherlock. If he moved to save one, the other two would be in danger, and Sherlock knew he wasn’t sure what it was they were looking for. He wasn’t even sure what it was they had lost, save that it was small, and Sherlock could tell that John was running out of options. Wolves were not actors, and they never could manage to hide anything from anyone, their natures making their feelings plain to everyone after a moment, and Sherlock was frankly amazed that John had managed to lie so well earlier, even by omission.

Shang was losing patience, evident as she walked up to cut open another of the bags, the metal weight slowly lowering. “Your time is running thin, dog. Give me the information.”

Sherlock calculated that if he caused a disruption, it would help a little, and a look at one of Dimmock’s people said that they were ready to cause one as well. The problem was…

“Those guns will never work, you know,” Sherlock said, getting everyone’s attention as he looked them over, “Automatics are really very hard to control, and in the hands of jumpy werewolves? I’m amazed you allow them to carry such things when they could just bite everyone and be done with it, or are they anything more than just pale imitations?” Shang glared at him as he continued, noting the timing out the corner of his eyes, “Is that why you’re here? Not just because you’re one of the generals of a Tong, but because you’re such a bad one you can’t even make proper werewolves?”

John took that moment to remind them what a real werewolf looked like, quickly turning into his wolf form and launching himself at the nearest one. Sherlock shifted, hitting and throwing the guard holding him as his focus turned a little more hypersensitive, noting the attack by Dimmock’s people as two or three tried to get the wolves wielding guns while one other directed the others outside, the Spider going up against John as he growled, snarling dangerously and with the same conviction that Sherlock had only heard from Roy Byrd when he was a werewolf.

Sherlock threw the last of the wolves on him away, Shang attempting to shoot him as he ducked, going for the crossbow, someone tackling him instead sending it spinning like an old-fashioned Russian roulette. Sherlock heard John whimper before snarling, the sound of someone yelling out in pain and the extra sound of police sirens sending up more confusion. Sherlock reached to grab the silk scarf or similar that the man was attempting to wrap around his neck, though it ended up pulling him up and starting to wrap him up even more, trapping his arm and then the other, feeling more like it was going to squeeze him to death like the silk was a large constrictor instead of just strangle him.

The sound of police whistles rang briefly in Sherlock’s ears before he felt the air rushing back in, the crossbow having gone off and struck the Spider where he was wrestling with John, and John having wasted little time in running to the man attacking Sherlock and taking him down, jaws closing on the other wolf’s throat, blood coming out as Sherlock untangled himself, putting a hand on John’s fur before taking in the situation. It appeared good (most of the wolves had been capture, John had taken down two or three, and only one was dead as far as he could tell), and Dimmock and his men were securing the area. Sherlock went over to start undoing Sarah’s bonds, trying to calm her down as he did while John looked over at her, worry for her evident in his eyes despite his bloodied fur.

Sarah was silent, even after the gag was taken off, and Sherlock guessed that she was far too scared to worry about John right now or his rights, Dimmock waiting for the two outside as John was once more put on the leash, this time in Sherlock’s hand and his wolf form stuck as he’d torn his clothing far too badly, and unluckily no one had brought an extra pair that would fit him.

“No need to mention us in your report,” Sherlock told him, “We’ll just slip off.”

“Mr. Holmes…”

“I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career.”

“If I go where you point me?” Dimmock sounded almost resigned to his fate as Sherlock, in the dark, gave a small smile.

“Exactly.”

\--

Sarah had dropped her charge of animal cruelty and allowed John to have the job, though the understanding was that it was only consulting, and all the money made would go to John’s card instead of Sherlock’s accounts.

The jade pin was easy to find, and Sherlock had let John deal with Sebastian, his mood far too good to be ruined by having to deal with him. Sarah Sawyer, for all her actions and ideals, was a good woman and would have been a wonderful choice for John to date, had he been Human. Her treatment of him had changed, and Sherlock had now learned why Dimmock didn’t employ the wolves as much as he liked. He’d looked at John Watson with pride and pity, and it surprised Sherlock to see someone who knew his treatment would end up getting him either fired or politically harmed due to championing ‘werewolf rights’ being so dull about it. Either way, Dimmock was smart enough to know that danger, and Sherlock had to praise him, even silently, for it.

Sherlock had to admit it was worth it, to see the secretary’s reaction, and hear John’s smugness when he returned with the check that would keep them over for a long while.

They returned home, John looking over at him as he sat, looking at some of the newspapers as John said, “You’re angry that we lost her.”

“Huh?”

“Shang. You’re angry we lost her. It’s not enough we got nearly everyone.”

Sherlock sighed, considering before saying, “The organization is far too large. Even getting Shang, we can’t catch them all…they just need to pick up another book, and the code changes.”

John nodded, watching Sherlock try to hold back a yawn. “You need sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. We haven’t had hardly a chance to eat or sleep in a few days.”

“My body’s a mere appendix for--.” He had taken a seat on the couch, and didn’t quite expect what happened next.

\--

Mrs. Hudson heard a commotion, a shout, and then the sound of Sherlock yelling before there was silence. She paused, slowly going upstairs to see what the whole thing was, though she wasn’t sure it was the best idea. She’d already learned to not fully check on the odd noises from upstairs, as half the time it was Sherlock just doing an experiment or two.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try now that John was in there, so she crept up to the main living room and looked in, blinking at what she saw.

A large, blondish wolf was stretched out across Sherlock, who was sprawled on the couch and looked up with the hopes of getting help. The sweater, a striped one she’d seen John were at one point, was all that indicated who the large wolf was, and Sherlock’s lack of actively trying to get him off indicated that he was, in fact, not caring at the moment enough to really try.

“Oh…” she managed, the wolf opening one eye then closing it, it’s head moving up against Sherlock’s before letting out a sigh. Sherlock looked over at Mrs. Hudson. “He’s insisting I get some sleep. He’s also quite heavy.”

The wolf gave no indication of moving, and Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “Well, if that’s all…”

“Mrs. Hudson--.”

“I should leave you alone. You have been up a long while.”

She left, Sherlock’s protests and calls for her loud for perhaps a minute before there was silence once more. It was two hours later she ventured to go up, seeing as she was beginning to worry about the two.

John opened an eye then closed it again, but Sherlock was asleep, one arm curled around the wolf like it was a large stuffed toy, and it was such a sweet scene that Mrs. Hudson wished she had her camera.


	4. "Fuzz Therapy" or Therapy Werewolves and Werewolves and Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has nightmares. Sherlock tries to deal with that, and figure out a way to help out. They help a client, and Mycroft comes over to be annoying. Now updated!

Part 4: “Fuzz Therapy” or Therapy Werewolves and Werewolf Therapy

It had been perhaps two weeks after the events with the Tong group when John’s nightmares began to get worse. Sherlock had managed to get a book on werewolf psychology, one that’s more academic then the other one he’d gotten, and recommended by Doctor Agar after a checkup. The book gave him a general understanding of how werewolves thought, but it seemed to only apply to John sometimes. He supposed that John’s background of a champion sheepdog, Army medical dog, and now aiding a consulting detective would make him as different as need-be. While Sherlock was pleased to know his wolf was so different, he also wished he knew more about dealing with John’s mental issues.

While John was off the leash after his informant had turned himself in (Sherlock suspected Raz knew a few werewolves who explained, in detail, what it meant to be leashed) and had not noticed anything out of the ordinary with John, Sherlock was quite annoyed due to the lack of an interesting case after the Tong one was done. So far, while John had had a few bad dreams, and the amount of running around, as well as the lack of what was a normal sleep schedule, had stopped John from having what probably should’ve been even more violent nightmares.

Sherlock was jolted out of his experiment by a sudden scream that turned into a howl, running to a nearby door as he moved swiftly out of the kitchen and into the hallway that lead up to John’s room. He waits long enough to motion to Mrs. Hudson to be quiet and that he would handle things before slowly ascending the stairs.

Sherlock slowed as the growling continued, but he couldn’t quite identify if it was frightened or not. He reached out to the doorknob, a hand resting lightly on it before he said, “John? I’m coming in.”

There was a sudden growl-whine-noise, John’s voice coming out at the end. Sherlock started turn the knob before he heard, “d-don’t.”

As usual, Sherlock ignored it, opening the door quickly and closing it again, looking over in the darkened room before he saw John, curled in a ball on the floor. His body was now showing patches of fur, most extending down from his hairline, and his tail was now out, but currently tucked between John’s legs as a sign of fear. His iris were now filling most of his eyes, the whites only to the side and barely showing, and his nose was a bit elongated, looking more like cross between a wolf’s and a human’s then it’s normal, smaller self. He whimpered as Sherlock approached, but didn’t move away.

Sherlock knelt beside John, reaching out slowly and soothing back John’s short hair, feeling him shudder as he stayed in the small ball on the ground. It was either an attempt by John to hide his nudity or because he was still in pain, Sherlock couldn’t tell right now. Still, it didn’t take much to pick John up (Sherlock noted that he’d gained some weight, but not as much as Agar or Sherlock would’ve liked) and place him on the somewhat ruined sheets of the small bed. Most werewolves had a small place to sleep, not a full bedroom, but Sherlock had never quite taken to what others did. Especially since John seemed perfectly content with a ‘den’ and since he enjoyed books and writing so much that the wolf needed the shelf-space.

John was still shivering, staying near Sherlock as he petted and soothed John. While this didn’t always work, there were times that John simply needed the contact, and Sherlock was already figuring out the times when he needed contact over music or simply observations. Sherlock waited until John stopped shivering, his breath evening out, before heading back downstairs, finding Mrs. Hudson waiting in the kitchen.

“Is he alright?” she asked, obviously worried as Sherlock looked over at her and waved off the concern.

“He had a nightmare,” Sherlock told her, “I can take him to the vet’s in the morning.”

She nodded, patting his arm as if to eliminate his own worry before heading back downstairs. Sherlock was grateful that she didn’t go up, worried about what John might feel at the second intrusion. He’d only needed Mrs. Hudson’s attention once thus far, but currently he was getting more and more used to Sherlock’s own. Still, Sherlock was worried about the rise in nightmares and night terrors, and hoped that it didn’t spell anything worse in the future.

\--

John had gone without (much) protest, Sherlock asking the vet about good books on the subject that he could get and read up on, or possibly something that might help. That John was partly transforming him into near werewolf stage worried and intrigued Sherlock, more so because John couldn’t consciously do that. Sherlock had stayed outside while John spoke to Agar before he’d gone in to speak to the man himself, hoping for some clue that wasn’t in the research.

Doctor Agar, the main veterinary doctor and werewolf behaviorist, had thought for a long moment before saying, “Most of the wolves that come back with wounds inflicted by silver do show signs like John’s, but they’re never able to consciously move back into their werewolf form, or as consciously as some drugs would allow that created that form. Some simply remain as wolves – they do alright as therapy wolves, but often they just need someone who’ll care for them, rather than vice-versa. Honestly, I’m glad you got him. John needed the stimulus, though his old therapist didn’t think so.”

Sherlock nodded, Agar writing down names and call numbers on a pad of paper, “There are a few books on the subject, but most were written before the ban on wolf testing, or are only published in areas that still allow it. Most of the information suggests that stress will trigger the changes – the nightmares and like - but he should be fine in a few months.” He handed the list to Sherlock. “If he doesn’t attack you, then everything should be fine.”

As they left, Sherlock checked his phone, which had been vibrating in his pocket shortly before they left.

“What is it?” John asked as they walked along to the tube station.

“Possibly a client,” Sherlock said as he returned a text and changed course for a taxi stand, “hopefully it will relieve my boredom.”

\--

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure why he took the case, it seemed boring. But, at the same time, such a “joke”, especially on a young woman bound for great things, could not be overlooked. He’d listened to her story, told her that he felt she should do whatever she wanted, and to realize he may never find the truth, or that the truth could be harmful.

John frowned at him from his chair. While it was technically the one that belonged to the flat, and thus Mrs. Hudson, John sat it in enough that his scent was on it, making it ‘his’. He seemed unhappy by the story, and by Sherlock’s silence after he’d spoken to the young woman. John could still smell her residual confusion and hurt from the action, and Sherlock’s anger that wasn’t directed at anyone yet.

 “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock muttered, finally getting up and writing something on his computer before going back to reading the articles from before. John knew that Sherlock was reading up on the effects of silver on werewolves, and knew why as well. It was one of the many quirks that John liked about Sherlock, and about being owned as someone’s first werewolf. He doubted everyone would be like Sherlock, but he knew that Sherlock only looked into it because of his worry. The events from the last few cases had gotten Sherlock to look up werewolf law, and John’s nightmares were now getting him to look into medical problems. It’s odd, because John hasn’t had this type of interest leveled at him before. In a way, Sherlock’s like that girl who just came in, and who’s considering not going to college now because of a random encounter. She has little experience with the matter, and now views it as something that may determine her whole life. John is personally a bit frightened of what might happen, if Sherlock does decide to keep acting so odd.

It’s not long before the girl’s stepfather arrives, saying he received an e-mail and had replied to Sherlock. John frowned at the mixed smells and body posture. The man considered himself important – he owned and ran a wine-tasting shop – but was nervous about—

The answer hit John just as Sherlock asked the man if he didn’t go on that final date with his stepdaughter because it would be awkward, or because she wasn’t the right age.

John felt a growl rising in his throat as Sherlock went through each detail – the anonymous setup on the computer, the e-mails that could only have come from his work computer, the outdated reasoning on letting someone so intelligent not be drawn into the _family business_. John could smell that, despite Sherlock’s somewhat calm voice, he was angry, and in a way that meant violence. John was unhappy as well, and didn’t even move to intercept Sherlock as he said, “If that girl had had an older sibling, or even a younger one, they’d be perfectly in their rights to beat you senseless.” Sherlock pulled out a riding crop as the man suddenly stumbled back, suddenly afraid as Sherlock advanced on him and John made no move to stop him. He was out of the flat in an instant, Sherlock’s anger and viciousness disappearing as quickly as he put the crop away and sighed, settling on the couch. “I hate people like that.”

John managed to walk over and look out the window. “He didn’t break too many rules, and you didn’t tell his stepdaughter. Why?”

“Telling her would cause a rift,” Sherlock said, “and I think she already knows. For all she’s been sheltered her whole life, she is smart. Smart enough, I think, to figure it out. Her mother and stepfather, though, needed a good shock. If they could get away with it once, what’s to stop them from something larger? On top of that, it was a childish prank, a hope they could get her to not leave and keep their cheap labor. I doubt they know she’s already signed up for an officer’s training program.” John frowned at him and Sherlock shrugged. “She’s going to a school and wants to see the world. Her family is too poor to afford travel abroad programs, and she knows enough about finances and loans to not get pulled into them. But she also said not to worry about college. Either she’s already signed up, and wanted to marry before that, or that was her option for paying off college.”

John was silent about the ideas, Sherlock finally looking over at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about her. I saw a few people who were eager to marry and who joined up. They didn’t end well.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I doubt she’s so eager now. I think she’ll be more cautious, less open-minded.” He sighed, “It was a horrible prank.”

John nodded, walking over to sit next to Sherlock. Sometimes, he found, Sherlock didn’t get in quite so foul a mood after a case was done if he petted John. It helped John’s fears sometimes as well, or at least his inability to help. He wanted to go and tell the woman not to worry, but he doubted that would really help her. If she knew, she’d be angry at them anyway, probably as angry as she’d be with her family.

Sherlock slowly carded his fingers through John’s hair, scratching and rubbing his ears lightly as John remembered his own problems. His sire’s side of the family was all show-dogs, his sister having gotten numerous ribbons before she became antagonistic towards everyone but her current owner, Clara. Still, she had bad days and the few times John had managed to hear anything about her was not good. His mum’s side was…well, he didn’t really know. She’d died when he was a pup on the farm, and he’d shown an aptitude for herding. He enjoyed being out, directing the sheep as quickly as he could, or lying in wait with the others. The family that owned him, that gave them the surname Watson, had been proud of his ribbons and even prouder of him in their own way, but his sire and Harry…well, it was something else. He didn’t get along with his sister, who enjoyed being a model and show-dog. He liked showing his practical side, and liked that he won the awards for that. But his sire hated that he was plain-looking, both as a wolf and as a person, and Harry disliked that he’d not protested being picked out by the Medical Corp to be one of their aid-dogs, or that he showed an aptitude for helping in war. They didn’t talk because they both had their own lives, but John sometimes wondered if she still resented him for going to war, and if she would hate him even more for coming back scarred.

Sherlock’s hand moved to rub John’s neck, a sign he noticed the turn John’s thoughts had taken. “What’s wrong?”

“I…was thinking about my family. I don’t get along with them.”

There was a pause, then a dry chuckle and the overpowering smell of affection and love. “I don’t get on with mine, either, but I suppose that happens. Whatever it is, I’m glad to have gotten you.”

John closed his eyes, basking in the smell and feel of care that Sherlock was sending. He was glad that none of it was tinged with the odd hint of boredom, or the tang of cigarettes that Sherlock would sometimes indulge in, the only bad habit from his days chasing a way to make his brain be quiet, or to stop the boredom.

They were quiet for what felt like hours, Sherlock simply petting John and thinking through whatever his mind was telling him, before he got up and said, “I have to look into a few things. You’ll be alright going to Tesco on your own? We’re low on milk.”

John nodded and smiled, grateful for the quiet and the time to simply relax. It allowed him to process, as well as chase away any nightmares he might have later on. He stayed in the room for a bit before going to check on the things in the kitchen and heading out to Tesco’s with the card that Sherlock had given him. It had most of his money from the clinic, as well as the pension money, on it, allowing John far more freedom then he’d had even in the service. It was odd, but at the same time, enjoyable, to know that he was able to get what they needed without Sherlock checking every little thing. Sometimes, it almost made John feel Human.

\--

Sherlock found he was not that bored, searching the information on various websites about werewolves. The legalities that went into ensuring werewolves were protected, as well as the illegal activities that some werewolves were used for, were so numerous that it was almost staggering, especially since he’d never really noticed them until Mycroft had dropped off John.

The Tongs were not the only ones to have bitten-Humans – ‘rabid dogs’, he saw, was used because so few, even in the wild, carried a gene that would allow such a transformation – but they were the most-prominent right now. Older gangs and mafia had used the _threat_ of biting, keeping the rabid wolves on-hand for punishments, but the practice had waned over the years for a variety of reasons. The most prominent, Sherlock could see, was that most were-creatures looked down on the ‘rabid dogs’ and were far more brutal in taking them down. Cartels in Mexico and the Americas had learned that the hard way, and instead fell back to ‘coyotes’ – unhappy wolves or half-wolves, even some of the smaller and lesser were-beasts – to guide or take care of anyone crossing the borders. This didn’t get packs or tribes of were-animals, let alone the werewolves used by the US Border Patrol, to be as aggressive as they had been when the bitten ones were used. Since it’d taken John and the other wolves in Scotland Yard to identify what Zhizhu was, that simply meant the practice was becoming more and more archaic.

The question of how many types of were-animals there were, and if that was contagious, was one that Sherlock found interesting. _Homo canis lupis_ , the werewolf, seemed to be one of the few that had a rabid disease within them, though a few others that had canine forms – foxes, coyotes, etc – also had some signs of similar rabid diseases. The feline forms, most of which were found in tropical climates or heavily-wooded areas, was more familial. While werewolves and some others formed packs to cover huge areas – almost all major national and international parks in America boasted a wolf pack of some sort, as did many of the land held by Native Americas to the west of the Mississippi – were-felines forms often were solitary or held sway in a small town or village, with a larger grouping being under a sort of contract with each other. The were-jaguars and similar in Central and South America had used that pact to keep their tribes safe, as well as gained a greater taste for flesh after a few failed attempts into the jungle by Spaniards. Others had joined the Spanish against rivals or enemies, but overall the truce had been hard-won and made Human history far more interesting. The lionesses and others in Africa, especially the supposed mix that ruled Egypt and Nubia, were often a source of great debate as well as speculation, as were the ones that kept the interior of Africa near-closed to explorers without permits.

It was also interesting because none of them could quite fall under one category. Most were-canines were allergic to silver, but not all – foxes were known for long lives but also being problematic enough that few reached near-immortality, save one that held sway over part of China. Some could be quickly identified, but not all – some were-panthers and were-cougars were known for blending in so well that, unless they changed in front of you, no one would ever know who or what they were. While were-canines often were allergic to silver or mistletoe, were-felines were known for being allergic to gold – a strange feat, especially for many that lived in gold-rich areas. It was supposed to be a common allergy, by was quite uncommon or unused, outside of when one became far too powerful. Outside of possibly early-Roman history, and a few Greek city-states or other areas, there were few times in which someone who was noticeably part or even full were-creature ruling an area – the fox in China held only a small area, Genghis Khan and Julius Caesar were said to be part-wolf, but so was Nero and Caligula. Most of the famous Egyptian and Middle Eastern rulers were said to be related to were-lions or strong were-animals, but few of that lineage survived to the modern day. Sherlock hadn’t always liked history that much, but right now, he found the common links almost fascinating and an endless source of amusement and questions to fight off his boredom.

Well, that and the countless written on werewolf physiology and psychology. He had started with what Agar had recommended and tried to figure things out from there. So far, all he could tell was that John was unique in some ways, and textbook in others. Nightmares, and the wish to not bother his owners, was a bit textbook, but Sherlock doubted that John was having bad dreams about what happened in Afghanistan, and more dreams about what could have happened. That he was transforming, even a bit, was odd, but something that occurred when either the werewolf was close to wild or had not been comfortable in werewolf form.

The last part was something Sherlock had finally caved to asking Mycroft about, so he was not surprised when there was a knock on the door, a few days after the last case. John tilted his head briefly from his place, making breakfast in the kitchen, before saying, “Its Mycroft.”

“Well, that’s a record for him. He normally checks on me every two weeks, less if I was in a major brawl. Perhaps dealing with the Chinese made him late on his own schedule.”

John managed a chuckle before Mycroft came up, looking around before motioning to John, “Perhaps there’s something you need to get at the local Tesco? A chew toy, or something?”

That had earned Mycroft a glare from John before the wolf left, Sherlock frowning at the dismissal. This was, perhaps, the second time he’d seen Mycroft interacting with John, and noticed that his brother seemed unhappy that Sherlock had kept the wolf on. “I never knew you had a problem with werewolves.”

“I don’t. However, I don’t want him to hear us talking about his medical record,” Mycroft said, taking a seat, “and better he dislike me then you. I’m actually quite surprised he’s taken a shine to you, though.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You’ve read his file. He takes to some people, but not enough to follow or obey anyone, save a few people. You took him to the vet a few days ago.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Is that all you’re here for?”

Mycroft sighed. “No.” He gave Sherlock the file, “From what my men, as well as the vet, can gather, John is recovering well from the silver in his system. It’s not all out, and the attempt to pull it out would be painful. I have heard of an experimental procedure—“

“The vet also pointed out,” Sherlock interrupted, “that he’s doing well, despite the silver and the nightmares. As far as I can tell, he does better with mental stimulation.” He glared at Mycroft. “You gave him to me so I would have protection, and so far he’s proven himself. For all that you try to make it seem like he should like me more then you, he like me _before_ you started your campaign. And I’m not giving him over for some experimental procedure either. The silver doesn’t act up, and he’s been recovering and eating, something that Agar says he wasn’t while being talked at by some psychiatrist who believed he was a delicate flower. So why are you really here?”

Mycroft sighed, slowly turning the umbrella he had with him. “I did think you wanted to discuss his medical history in private, especially since you’ve been looking into the rabid dogs after that…Chinese problem. And the procedure, I’ve been told, is only slightly evasive and has a high success rate of ensuring the wolf has no lingering traces of silver, allowing for a swifter recovery. But, if you don’t want that for your wolf, I won’t bring it up again. I will, however, point out that his mother’s side is possibly more wild then we imagined. The free wolves tend to be more inclined towards problems, and I want you safe.”

Sherlock finally shook his head at Mycroft, as if amazed. “Brother, I am safer with John than with you. If there’s nothing else, then go away. I have experiments to run.”


	5. "Let Sleeping Werewolves Lie" OR Warning Signs of an Angry Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a small case for Mycroft. Sherlock learns just how dangerous Moriarty is. John is hurt, and Sherlock goes on a small mission that may have been a bad idea. Now updated!

Part 5: “Let Sleeping Wolves Lie” or Warnings Signs of an Angry Werewolf

The first time John growled at Sherlock, there was an explosion. Well, it wasn’t quite like that, but at the same time, Sherlock’s mind is odd enough to connect the two. He promises to look at it later, when his mind-palace isn’t so messy with everything else, or growing itch of boredom that often made it chaotic.

To be fair about everything, Sherlock had been the one to set off John – boredom had set in, and nothing John could do would stop it. This ended when Sherlock had scoffed at all John’s attempts to be understanding, after Sherlock had spraypainted a smiley-face on the wall and proceeded to shoot it. John had growled, baring his teeth and everything, before suddenly running upstairs. Mrs. Hudson had been upset, mostly that Sherlock had upset John enough to get him to growl. Werewolves tended not to growl unless they were very upset or so afraid and unhappy with a situation that they didn’t want anyone to try and help. It was also something that could, or did, get some werewolves either killed or sent away, if they were owned, or got the RSPCA involved, if they weren’t.

Sherlock had just resolved to apologize when the explosion happened, throwing him to the floor and making his ears ring. He became aware of how much damage had been done when John came down in wolf-form, quickly checking over Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, who was unhurt but obviously a bit scared after such an explosion. That he remained in wolf-form, even while moving Sherlock out of the now-glass-covered sitting room, said a lot about his state of mind at the moment. Mrs. Hudson picked up on it quickly, hugging and petting John a bit as he slowly relaxed. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson answered the questions from emergency services before they left, John moving to lie down on top of Sherlock after they’d cleaned up the area and Sherlock stretched out onto the couch to think. The whole thing had gotten Sherlock to be a little less antagonistic, and he softly apologized to John as the night changed into day. John calmed enough to rest, letting Sherlock work on clearing his mind-palace and putting everything in order.   

It was nearing noon when Mycroft came in again. John was resting at Sherlock’s feet as Sherlock tuned his violin, being careful to not to make too harsh a sound. Werewolves tended to have better hearing in both forms, and John enjoyed Sherlock’s playing, even basic scales. Plus it was helping to slowly bring John back to his human form, as Sherlock was beginning to worry that his werewolf was a bit too comfortable in wolf form, when traumatized or scared.

“That’s twice in a week, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as his older brother sat in John’s seat, “Is Mummy that worried?”

“She doesn’t know about the new developments,” he pointed out, turning his umbrella and looking over, “I came by because I was hoping you’d let me borrow John for something.”

John’s head raised and Sherlock frowned. “For what?”

“One of my men was found dead on the train tracks last night,” Mycroft said simply, “He was in charge of some missile defense plans, and his fiancée is certain he wouldn’t steal them. I wanted John to see what he could find.”

Sherlock was ready to use the violin to explain his feeling on this, but he didn’t really see a reason to do it. There were other ways to annoy Mycroft and get him to leave. “Let me think it over.”

“I would really like to borrow him today, before the trail goes cold,” Mycroft said, stopping the movement of his umbrella and frowning at Sherlock, “Before you say that I have my own wolves to do it, mine are all rather busy with other problems. I would like a wolf that can be…discreet, at least.”

John was silent at Sherlock’s feet, waiting as Sherlock considered right before there was a text from Lestrade. Seemed there was a case ( _finally!_ ) and…oh, that was interesting. “Case came up, but if we have a lull in activity, I might let you borrow him.”

Mycroft finally nodded, apparently fine with the possibility of not getting what he wanted. Or, at least, that Sherlock was going to be safe this time. “Very well then. Send him by my office when you get the chance, and I’ll get him up to speed.”

\--

It takes a bit for John to return to his Human form. Most of it, he thinks, is due to the odd ‘game’ that is being played and how invested Sherlock is becoming in it. After the fourteenth or so message from Mycroft, as well as the long wait while testing out the possible poison on a pair of long-missing trainers, Sherlock had asked John to look into the case that Mycroft offered up earlier.

The smell of pain and Novocain, as well as the way Mycroft shifted and winced as he spoke, told John that Sherlock had been right about the deduction on Mycroft’s health and earlier appointment.

John still frowned as he got the information, confused about why Mycroft would need him to look into Andrew West’s death. He reads through the basic information, viewing it more as a mission or similar and frowning at what little information he had. It was odd, making him wonder as Mycroft explained about the flash drive with missile plans.

 _Bit stupid,_ John thought but didn’t voice. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Mycroft, and thus wanted to avoid any misunderstandings. He didn’t know who this mysterious bomber was, only that, at one point, this would get dangerous. But if it did get dangerous, or if something happened to Sherlock, that normally meant that either he’d be sent back to the RSPCA, or given to Sherlock’s brother. John didn’t know what being owned by Mycroft would entail, and he’s afraid to ask. Instead, he simply nods as Mycroft tells him about how important it is to find the flashdrive and if West was a traitor or not.

\--

John was exhausted when he tracked the killer down, and wondered again why it was that Mycroft requested this of Sherlock. Any wolf could figure it out, based off the ‘Past Due’ bills and the scent on the body of the soon-to-be brother-in-law. Despite what some people said, smells lingered, especially one that began to mingle with all the others and mixed with the scent of the sister. It’s the smell of a bicycle, sweat, and guilt that John hadn’t had the time to comment on before he’d been asked by Sherlock to interview Connie Prince’s brother.

Sherlock has managed to figure out the sneakers, stopping to get John at the tracks and get some food for them. But the new photo of Connie Prince confused him until John mentioned her, and they begin looking into what really killed her. John smells…something…that he doesn’t like, and Sherlock seems to be considering everything as they once more split up. The food, as well as the hope that things would at least work out, despite how strangely interested in the bomber Sherlock was, John could tell that it was something that Sherlock put into all of his cases. These ones just happened to be focused on a mad bomber who was interested, specifically, in Sherlock.

The notice of another werewolf, as well as the advances, had gotten John to call Sherlock. He was grateful when his Human arrived, and John managed to shoot off a text to Mycroft just after they exited the room and he confirmed Sherlock’s own theory about Connie Prince’s brother. Most of it was, he learned, from Sherlock main-lining information about Connie Prince, had insulted everyone on her website, and after realizing what a lot of the cues meant.

Outside, Sherlock handed John over a small nutrition bar. It was commonly called a ‘treat’, since it was meant for werewolves and packed with all the energy they might need if they transformed or hadn’t been able to eat a lot. Sherlock had taken to bringing them along, after seeing the problems with what little silver was still in John’s system, as well as how lethargic he could get. “I heard from Mycroft you figured that out. I told him to use his own wolves next time.”

John nodded as he opened the treat, sneezing twice to get the smell of disinfectant out of his nose. “Will the brother be charged?”

Sherlock thought on it. “Possibly, but scandal is the more likely, considering some views on lycanphilia or whatever they call it.” John didn’t answer that, not sure how to talk about it. People who loved only were-creatures, or who simply found a werewolf they could have as a lover, was not that uncommon – it was how some variations of werewolves came about, including the ‘half-wolves’ that had human appearances but some random wolf trait, and which couldn’t transform into a wolf or werewolf. Still, to some degrees, it was also seen as either like zoophilia or pedophilia, in the sense that many of the stories involved owners taking advantage of, or harming, younger werewolves or werewolves only while in wolf form. It was also why ‘werewolf farms’ and the like were now frowned upon – some werewolves were actually the offspring of half-wolves forced to breed with werewolves to get specific ‘designer’ wolves. Harry’s look hinted that there might be a half-wolf in the Watson lineage somewhere, since she’s more of a show-wolf, having a beautiful look in her Human and wolf forms. John was said to take more after his mother, who possibly was part wild werewolf, and thus more plain and prone to dangerous situations, but loyal to a fault.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, a small smile on his face as he finished his text to Lestrade and ended that round of the ‘game’, “we’re ahead of him now.”

\--

They hadn’t, and because of it, an old woman and 12 others, as well as the care-wolves, had died from the explosion in a nursing home. Sherlock said it was because the woman had tried to say something about the killer. Despite the death, he still focused on the game aspect, the smell of sorrow only brief before it overcame the smell that preceded the thrill of the chase.

John walked into his room before he let out a low, dangerous snarl, easily slipping into his wolf form to attack a nearby pillow, trying to relieve his stress. It wasn’t proper for a wolf to attack a Human, and he’d learned that from all his training. Attacking something that wasn’t directly attacking you or what you were protecting was _wrong_ , but at the same time, John also _wanted_ to attack some people, especially those that hurt Sherlock. He wanted to also growl at Sherlock, to warn him when what he was saying or doing was getting closer to the way the bomber was acting, or others that looked down their noses at them. It was something John struggled with, a wild side of himself that Harry only had with those she was close to, a side that made him glad he wasn’t able to curse another person, wasn’t so wild that he could do that…

He curled up when a knock on the door stopped his destruction of the pillow, not wanting to talk or deal with Sherlock, and knowing that the knock was only because he’d destroyed the bed twice now and Sherlock had to knock to make sure it was safe.

A hand slowly touched his back, signaling that Sherlock had sat down next to him. “I’ve upset you.”

John liked his wolf side. He didn’t have to talk, at least. He was comfortable in it, too comfortable for some, but at least Sherlock didn’t talk to him like he was different, like he was anything _less_ because of it.

“I’m not a hero, John. There are few who are. Please, try not to make me out as one. I abhor what the man does for attention, but he has it because he’s trying to get it. He’s weaving puzzles and symbols like a spider weaves a web. All I need is the right thread, and I can unravel it and bring him to justice. I’d much rather that, to find it and lose myself in the game, then to be a hero.”

Sherlock was petting him fully now, causing John to slowly relax under the comforting touch. Sherlock’s voice slowly washed over him, “The next pip was along the river. I called Lestade about it, so we’ll be contacted when the body’s found. If you don’t want to come along, that’s fine.”

John had shifted towards Human, wanting to get his own point across and unable to while a wolf, “I’m not sorry. You should have cared about it. She was going to help, and they killed her. Someone’s gram, and a whole lot of others. Why didn’t you care?”

Sherlock sighed, slowly standing up. “Because it’s how I do things.” He pulled out his phone as it vibrated. “That’s Lestrade. I’ll be back with news.”

\--

Lestrade had frowned upon seeing Sherlock without John, Sherlock shifting as he looked at the body that had washed up, noting the tell-tale sign of the assassin known as the Golem. He’d need John on this, and hopefully he’d be able to not be so depressed.

“Where is he?”

“John wasn’t feeling well,” he told him simply, kneeling down to look at the body of the dead man. “I left him at home.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said, shifting a little as if he knew more then he wanted to bring up. “He’ll be alright, though?”

“He should be,” Sherlock said, “He was…upset about the deaths.”

“Understandable,” Lestrade pointed out. For all that some thought about wolves, they could get very empathic and easily upset over mass deaths or trauma. Lestrade had to call some people on their jokes about ‘werewolf periods’, and Donovan never had the time to listen to excuses for it. “So what do you think?”

Sherlock quickly went through the motions of examining the body before standing and saying, “I think that this has to do with that Veneer painting…it’s a fake.”

\--

John was up, dressed, and eating something downstairs when Sherlock came back, saying simply, “I need your help with this. We’re going hunting for a very dangerous man.” John had looked at him before nodding, his ears slowly perking up. It was, at least, a good sign.

\--

The strays and homeless of London had tracked the Golem in only a few minutes after the pound notes were passed off. The Golem was fierce, even without his reputation, and most of the strays warning of the smell of ‘disease’. The hints seemed to be that he had werewolf-killing items on him, or at least that he was able to take down a full and healthy werewolf. John kept to his human form, though his ears were almost constantly alert as they headed into the areas near the river. Considering the Golem’s reputation, Sherlock admired John’s attempts to at least appear harmless, though John’s sudden decision to run after the Golem made Sherlock panic.

Despite some problems, John was the one person that Sherlock could really talk to, and while Sherlock trusted others, John was often the one who _most_ of the trust fell on. But even after the incident with the cabbie, or the Chinese Tong, it was a bit apparent to Sherlock that John would risk his life for that of another. It was also very likely that John would get hurt for the same reason, if the silver poisoning and his constant nightmares were any indication. The sound of a fight nearby, as well as the howls of some other werewolves to show their support if needed, sends Sherlock running into the dark area.

He rounded the corner just as John let out a whimper of pain, his wolf form shuddering and with blood coating the gray-blond fur. Something, which Sherlock could see was the piece of a hand with long fingers, dropped out of John’s mouth as he coughed, a few long cuts bleeding in a way that said the knife or whatever had been used had something bad for werewolves, but was not silver or a silver alloy. Sherlock’s mind went quickly through the list and came to the most obvious conclusion as John shuddered, the bleeding slowing only after Sherlock had wiped as much of a sticky substance away from the wound as he could.

“He got you with mistletoe it looks like,” Sherlock said, “Come on…I have an idea of where he’s gone, and we have to make it there before it’s too late.”

John gave what appeared to be a nod before shaking himself again, as if trying to shake off water and starting forward a little shakily before managing to walk a bit more, though unsteadily. Sherlock wanted to tell John to stay, to get help, but the determined look in John’s eye made it near-impossible. That still didn’t make Sherlock feel any better, especially as his mind supplied the various worse-case scenarios of what would happen. The Golem was hurt and would need to show himself a good assassin, meaning they had little time to try and heal John, let alone come up with a good plan or call for backup from Lestrade or anyone else.

They got there in time for a woman to let out a half-chocked scream, John once more racing up to help as Sherlock yelled out, pulling out a gun he’d managed to get after the cabbie business. John weaved around the Golem’s legs, biting at them as the woman was let go, landing on the controls with a thud that only assured the worse for her. The Golem let out a primordial yell at he kicked John, making Sherlock’s mind stutter as he tried to figure out what to do.

 _Too late,_ his brain repeated, _they’re too late to save her, to help…_ Sherlock kept hold of the gun, but now he wasn’t sure about using it. Werewolves were sturdier then people, but that didn’t mean that gunshots still couldn’t hurt them. A shot to Golem, especially since Sherlock was not the best at hitting a moving target, might make things worse.

John had recovered enough to go for the Golem again, Sherlock managing to grab hold of the wounded arm before the Golem once more struck out, this time at Sherlock. The blow was enough to knock the gun and Sherlock backwards and to the floor, jarring him enough to stun. Sherlock knew there was enough time for the man to attack, but instead there were a few snarls and the overly-loud sound of the music and tour of the galaxy.

Sitting up slowly, head ringing from the blow, and looked around before seeing John nearby, panting and with the obvious effects of silver evident even against his fur. A sharpened piece of what Sherlock assumed was mistletoe stuck out of John’s shoulder, near the original silver bullet wound. However, nearby was the Golem, throat half-torn out and hardly able to move. The sound of sirens announced that someone had heard the commotion, and the lack of movement from the Golem at least said he’d be in custody the moment they got here.

Sherlock quickly moved over to John, touching the item lightly. Mistletoe this close to silver was dangerous anyway, but combined with the reopened wounds…he had to remove it, and hope for the best. John managed a small whimper and brief growl as Sherlock removed the sharpened piece, tossing it away while John’s eyes went out of focus briefly before he began to whimper again. Sherlock swallowed, trying hard to not panic at how weak John looked, or how disoriented. The books on werewolves had said this would happen, if John was exposed to mistletoe or wolfsbane, but the last time hadn’t been this bad.

 _He also hadn’t been injured before, and it was proximity, not something in his blood!_ A vet and medic soon appeared by his side, John letting out low whines at their touches and dangerous growls when they got too close to the wound. Sherlock managed to explain what happened as another medic tried to deal with the dying Golem, and could only calm John down as the vet bandaged the wound and prepared him for transport to the hospital.

\--

John had been effectively out of commission after taking down the Golem, and Sherlock had only just made the deadline before a little boy was killed this time. Lestrade had sent Sherlock back to the flat the minute he could, saying he’d deal with everything else while Sherlock took care of John. The vets had managed to get him stabilized enough that he could remain at Baker Street, under Mrs. Hudson’s care, while Sherlock finished this part of the game. For as fun as the games were in theory, and as quick as his mind now worked at for the actual games, with lives in the balance and a countdown, he also could see how things were escalating. The mysterious person in charge, the elusive Moriarty, was trying to show how much he cared for the _game,_ rather than the clients. It intrigued Sherlock in a way, but it also made him want to find the man. Not for the thrill of the hunt, of the _game_ , but because of his own reasons.

Sherlock helped the police because, ultimately, it was more of a challenge. Getting the police to listen, to talk around the idiots like Anderson, to watch competent police like Lestrade work, and figuring out motivations or the puzzles. If he thinks about it, the puzzles that people bring him, that the police bring him, are far more interesting.

John was lying on the couch when Sherlock gets back, covered in a thick blanket and looking slightly worst off then when he’d dealt with the Presbury case. He’s paler then before, looking almost washed out, and blinks sleepily at Sherlock when the Human sit near him, reaching out to pet his hair. One ear twitches in a way that Sherlock has come to realize is amusement, and John appears contented before his curiosity makes him ask, “what was it?”

“A supernova,” Sherlock replies, scratching the one furred ear a bit, “which wasn’t around when Vermeer was. The guard was an avid astrologist, and knew about the discrepancy.”

John gave a small nod, shifting a little. “Have you…gotten another pip or anything?”

Sherlock pulled out the pink phone, shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor and allow John a view of it from his position on the couch. “Nothing. It appears he’s gotten bored, or is waiting for me to make the next move.”

He watched John as the wolf’s eyes nearly closed, opening again when he realized he was falling asleep. “I should’ve…been more useful, instead of…whatever I was.”

“You killed the Golem, which I would count that as quite useful,” Sherlock pointed out, once more managing a small scratch that caused John to relax a bit more, “especially when he was using mistletoe against you. Most wolves wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

John opened his eyes again, smiling a little before asking, “What are you planning?”

“You know,” Sherlock lamented as he put the phone away and stopped petting John, “it would be easier for me to plan things if you weren’t able to smell my mood changes.”

John gave a small chuckle at that. “I suppose. What’s the plan?”

“Nothing to be worried about, at least, nothing for you to worry about. I fully intend to deal with Moriarty, though.”

“I’m supposed to take care of you.”

Sherlock sighed at that, looking at the wolf he’d been so reluctant to take. John had proven himself within the first day, let alone the first week, and Sherlock was beginning to see the appeal of owning such a loyal friend. It made him wonder about those that took their wolves for granted, or mistreated them. It also made him realize how close he’d come to losing John, because Moriarty obviously knew about the silver still remaining in John’s system, and knew enough to send an assassin that killed wolves regularly.

“I know. But for now, it’s my turn to take care of you, and to do that, I’m going to have to meet Moriarty.”

\--

John was against the idea, but as he could hardly sit up without help, Sherlock knew he wasn’t up for taking out criminal masterminds tonight. Though without John, Sherlock would be open to attack by other werewolves or werecreatures, he was also certain that Moriarty _wouldn’t_ attack him.

Not if Moriarty was going through all this just to relieve his own boredom. That might up the game, but the risk was too high that it was also end it far too quickly, and if Sherlock _was_ like Moriarty, then he knew the other would do all he could to threaten and keep the game going for as long as possible.

The pool was quiet, warmer then outside and smelling of chlorine and causing a small mist to rise above the water. Sherlock walked in, hands behind his back and the copy of the missile plans in his hands. He wasn’t certain what to expect, but was ready for a great deal. His initial call out went unnoted, with no movement from any of the corners of the pool, until he held up the black flashdrive.

“I brought a get-to-know-you present!” he yelled, waiting for the response. He heard a door open, turning quickly and frowning, trying not to back up as the larger-than-usual tiger stepped out. The amber-colored eyes, size, and general movement of the creature said this was a weretiger, and an old one at that. It stalked towards him, a low growl coming out as a voice said from further away, “I left you my number. Thought you might call.”

Sherlock frowned until Moriarty appeared, and then he recalled, vaguely, that Molly had tried to introduce him to her friend, Jim, while John was investigating that thing for Mycroft. The smaller man, about his age, with dark hair and pale skin, walked out, changed from the almost happy ( _gay_ ) boyish man that had been trying to get his attention earlier. He was still in expensive clothing – a Westwood suit, Sherlock guessed, and sent an almost fond look at the tiger, as if daring Sherlock to comment on it. Instead, he walked a bit closer, asking, “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

He pulled the gun out, his eyes on Moriarty but some of his attention on the weretiger before him as he did. “Both.”

“Didn’t bring your dog this time, did you?” Moriarty asked, “That’s too bad.”

“I suppose. Why, were you going to see how well he played with your little pussycat?” The tiger growled at the insult, though he didn’t attack as Sherlock and Moriarty had their stand-off. Moriarty seemed to believe that, no matter what, so long as the tiger was between them, he was safe, and thus spent most of the time saying that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to catch him, that he’d only shown him a brief glimpse of what there was.

“You know what I’m going to ask you,” Moriarty said, “Everything I would say has already gone through your mind.”

Sherlock smiled at him, angry and suddenly not as impressed with the man who’d kept his attention for so long. “My answers, then, have already crossed yours.”

Moriarty smiled up until he heard a growl that was too low, too distinct to be from the tiger. He managed a surprised look before a wolf appeared, front paws on his shoulders and jaws at his throat. The tiger started to turn as Sherlock shifted the gun, shooting the tiger in the shoulder. The beast let out a wounded roar of pain, the fur in the area turning white then red with blood as the wolf managed to push Moriarty to the ground, the sound of police and others coming in and dealing with possible snipers echoing through the pool.

“I do hope you realize what this means,” Sherlock said, moving to kick the hurt tiger as it howled again, too weak to attack him. “Gold alloy in a tiger is as bad as silver in a wolf, isn’t it?”

It was, for tigers at least. Sherlock suspected this was an Indian tiger, meaning it was more susceptible to gold then the African werecats, or even the American werecats. Though they were allergic to gold in a sense, African werecats were also prone to allergies with ivory, while Indian and Asian tigers were far more likely to be gravely ill from gold-alloy bullets, rather than the purer gold that was required for others. Moriarty glared at Sherlock from his place on the ground, the wolf growling at him in warning.  

The tiger was starting to shift a little towards human as Sherlock moved towards it, the gun still out. “I have five more bullets with gold in them. I do hope you have another kitty around to play with, Jimmy, because I doubt he’d survive that.”

Moriarty gave a sarcastic almost-smile, but refrained from moving in the hold he was stuck in. Sherlock returned the smile, gun still pointed at the half-tiger as he said finally, “I believe we’re done here.”

There was a low growl from the wolf as the police started to come in, the weretiger letting out a low, half-growl at Sherlock as a few more men began to show. Sherlock tried to figure out if they were the police or Moriarty’s men as he noticed a small movement by Moriarty, a small cylinder in the palm of one hand.

“Oh,” Moriarty managed to whisper, “we’ve only just begun.”

There was a beep, and a sudden chorus of answering ones, before the whole of the building around them exploded.


	6. Interlude: "Cats and Dogs" or Other Shapeshifters in Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty considers his weretiger, Moran, and the werewolf John, as he finishes his fight with Sherlock. Now Updated!

 

Moriarty had chosen Moran because he was an old tiger, and old tigers were hard to find. Old shikaris, the weretigers with enough English blood in them to cause them to appear to be white instead of Indian, were even harder to find, but his connections has paid off and he’d hired Moran for various sniper work, the last of the bunch being execute brilliantly. Moriarty hadn’t expected the back of Shang’s head to pattern the wall so well, but it had and he was happy to have seen it. Even put in something extra for that, from his own, personal account.

It was wonderful, masterful, and possibly the only reason why, when he walked out the next day to find the older man asleep on his couch, the bathroom window broken, that he allowed him to remain. Well, that and the man was _gorgeous_ for an older man…

That, and the fact that when he’d gotten even a step closer, Moran had shifted before his eyes into a large, dangerous and potentially lethal weretiger that took up the whole couch and who simply opened one amber-colored eye to look at Moriarty. It was a challenge, one to show Moran’s danger, and if Moriarty had thought him handsome in Human form…

He’d managed a smile and gone into the kitchen to make coffee before he’d heard a deep rumble – a _purr_ – and Moran had laid on his couch, asleep, all day like he was a cat.

Moriarty hadn’t been so impressed in ages, and thus the man stayed in a now-shared apartment. Jim had never quite gotten down the idea of sharing, and his grandfather had not encouraged him to act like he was normal. Of course, grandfather and he were very similar, which is probably why they got along so well after his parents accident (which wasn’t Jim’s fault, but they’d asked questions that they shouldn’t have and, well, Grandfather _had_ warned Mum…). Of course, Grandfather only paid attention to Jim when he was called in from school, or when he got into the math homework, and in the end was perhaps worst then his parents. Still, he’d taught Jim some valuable lessons, and he was so grateful that he let the man die a relatively peaceful death (another mysterious one and people might have started to _talk_ ).

Moran, oddly enough, should’ve been boring. He wasn’t. He spoke of his time in India, about how weretigers who were Anglo when Human got the name _shikar_ (apparently it had to deal with hunting, and being hunted), and about how his family had lived while in India. He’d spoken about his time in Africa and meeting up with a small pride of werelions, as well as talking to a group of werecheetahs that had caught poachers in the area. The Dark Continent of Africa was only open to those willing to go by the rules – the lions, cheetahs, and other wereanimals that inhabited the area saw to it, as did the inhabitants. It always interested Moriarty to think of what history might have to show, had Africa not been so cut off from colonization by the dangerous werebeasts of the interior who had taken to the protection of their people with such fervor.

There were a million other stories, or so Moriarty though there must be, considering that he’d seen Moran shirtless once and he’d been nearly covered in scars (a feat for a werebeast, considering most healed quickly unless it was something damaging, like silver or gold, used against them). He’d enjoyed trying to figure out where each one had come from, as well as what ultimately became of the ones lucky enough to leave a scar. Moran had warned them of the dangers of scarred werebeasts – those that survived an attack by silver or gold were usually more vulnerable, and thus more dangerous. It was something that he and the Golem had fought about, the tall man laughing at Moran’s warnings about John.

Moran had growled at the Golem in a way that sent the man running, before falling to the floor and letting out a puff of air, annoyed. Weretigers were not like werewolves – they didn’t have the cutesy ears or dog-like manner in all forms. Moran was older, perhaps in his forties or more, and there were some stripes along his face and arms, which could be mistaken for tattoos of some sort. His eyes maintained the amber coloring, and one had to get close enough to see that they also had some cat-like qualities.

Not that Jim had managed to get that close on purpose. But it was a nice thing to know.

\--

It was dumb luck that got them out of the building, and Jim _hated_ that fact. He also hated the timing of it all. He hadn’t quite expected Sherlock to put an end to the game so quickly, had thought he’d at least draw it out.

They manage to hide out in the house of a former cartel man who’d gotten Jim to write up a fake life and paid well. Mr. Douglas didn’t mind Jim, but he seemed to really worry about Moran. Granted, most Americans, especially those from Mexico and the like, were nervous around werecats. It was a product of having werecreatures slow or halt expansion, especially the ones that were between a group of soldiers and a gold mine that could’ve been used to take everything over. It had only spurred on the idea of ‘purity’ within Europe and how some would test for traces of werewolf or werecreature blood.

Moriarty is focusing on survival, on hiding and returning again. Douglas couldn’t let him use wireless or anything else, for fear of it being traced back and his former employers finding him. After a cursory glance at the computer, Jim realizes there no way he can make it secure enough to even _attempt_ to contact Molly, or even others in his ‘Jim from IT’ persona.

“You liked her,” Moran mutters as Jim and he hide in the small safe room, located in the exercise area.

“Who?”

“That Molly girl,” Moran tells him, getting Jim to frown. He probably shouldn’t have let anyone this close to him but…well, Moran was _interesting_. And Molly knew a great deal, she just lacked the backbone to say a lot of things. And ok, his inner actor really liked _Glee_ …

“And if I do?”

“Don’t get defensive, Jim,” Moran muttered, getting Jim to shift and actually look at the weretiger. They’d been unable to get the bullet out of his shoulder, the depth and angle after the explosion and having to run meaning it was too deep for them to take out without alerting someone. The first attempt had sent Moran roaring and them running again. So really, the only reason for them to be here is to wait out the slow poisoning that’s going to take Moran away from Jim.

“Fine, I did. She was…nice.”

Moran chuckled a bit. For all Jim’s attempts at sadism, and most of his ability _to_ be sadistic, Moran seemed to know exactly why that was. Jim blamed it on feline intuition – most werecats were very informed on how people operated, and a few made good mediators. Wolves had similar abilities, but considering they were often either off in the wild, only in their own packs, or kept as pets, they didn’t exactly have the same status that cats did.

“Are you done?”

“I guess. I am glad you left her alone…she’s a nice girl.” He shifted on the small couch that they had, one far too small to hold his frame, both as a human or as a tiger. “You’re going stir-crazy here.”

“So’re you.”

“Well, I’m dying, so that’s kinda allowed.” Jim looked away, not wanting to talk about that point. He didn’t like that idea of being alone again. Not after he’d gotten used to having the tiger around.

“Stop getting sentimental on me,” Moran muttered, reaching up to pat his shoulder, “Without me, you can have a chance to take down Sherlock.”

Jim wasn’t quite sure that’s what he wanted, now. ‘Take down’ was so…simple.

He really, _really_ did want Sherlock to burn.

\--

They were sold out by Douglas’ wife, shortly after some of the men from Douglas’ old group caught wind of him. Moran couldn’t run, the gold too far in his system to keep him even upright. Jim ran, and Douglas had to deal with the police and everything else.

Jim was not surprised, weeks later, when Sherlock appeared at his doorstep.

“Your cat’s dead,” he said, his voice oddly monotone as they stood atop the jagged coastline, looking at the rocks below.

“How’s the dog, then?”

Sherlock is silent, and Jim realizes he doesn’t really have to burn his heart out. He wonders who he has to thank for that – probably the older brother, which is a pity because the Iceman doesn’t deserve any thanks.

“You ever read Kipling?”

“ _Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware/of giving your heart to a dog to tear_ ,” Sherlock quoted. “Same might be said for a tiger.”

Jim snorted. He’d done what he could for Moran, and if Sherlock is here, ready to give his soul in a fight they’ll both lose…well, who is he to argue?

“Should we solve this final problem of ours?” he asks, standing and looking at Sherlock. With a nod, the two rush each other, and there is a flurry of motion before they are over the cliff and Jim tumbles and—


	7. “Learn not to fear the fruits of the past” or Werewolves Depicted in History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Knight gets himself a werewolf, while also trying to decipher clues about his past. However, he's not sure how far he can go without getting into trouble, or bringing down his new wolf, John, in the process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original was written before Series 2, and this one is writing after Series 3, so...more changes to come! Hope you enjoy this new, updated chapter!

 

Henry Knight had not, contrary to popular belief, been scared of werewolves _before_ that incident with his Da. He still wasn’t, of course – werewolves didn’t have glowing eyes, and didn’t do…what that _thing_ …did to his Da. He knew that much, even without therapy and regressive whatever that Doctor Mortimor was helping him through. But after seeing that monster again, because Mortimor _insisted_ he revisit the place of Da’s death…well, he wasn’t about to stay alone in a house with just himself. And he wasn’t going to take up everyone else on their offers either.

He liked the people in town, but they had made his trauma and the legends of the area into…well, into a side-show, and Henry was a bit bitter about that part.

He goes to the RSPCA in London, because he’d rather not get weird looks from anyone closer to home, and, because his Mum had taught him about werewolves and so had her side of the family, being American and having lived near a national park for so long, he’s able to go and look at some of the werewolves that can only go to homes where there might be certain needs met.

He pauses at one wolf, a sort of blond-ish one who’s curled up, not looking at anyone. The nametag reads ‘John’ and says he’s in need of special care, though the instructions are a bit odd.

 _In need of a good environment with some intrigue, but also down-times and quiet. Speak to Dr. Agar for more details_.

Henry sat in front of the wolf’s cage, frowning at the instructions as he noticed the wolf, John, had noticed him and was giving him a curious look. He managed a small smile and pointed to the instructions. “Don’t quite understand that. So you need something where you’re stressed, but not overly? Or where you’re stressed for a short time, then can relax?”

An ear flickered in amusement and John turned in a small, tight circle, moving a bit closer to sniff Henry. He tilted his head and gave Henry his own quizzical look.

“Yeah, I’m not quite that good. Moved back to my childhood home…it’s near a place where…I lost my Da. Not really a good place, either. Lots of bad history.” John was silent, listening and just looking at Henry. Henry managed a smile, despite the bad memories. It was why, despite some people thinking it was an escaped werewolf or whatever, that Henry had always felt comfortable around them. They would listen, or just give you what you needed. This one, despite the fact that he was listed as ‘traumatized’ and ‘no Werewolf, limited/no Human’ for forms, seemed best for him.

\--

Doctor Agar sighed as he listened to Henry’s story. “I hope you don’t _just_ want him until you solve your Dad’s murder.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to do that,” Henry muttered, sounding bitter even to his own ears, “They never found the body, and it’s not like I can just walk into a government facility. But…well, there’s a lot of weird things going on there, and I’m looking into that, at least. Plus, if there is some evil beast or Hound or whatever, I’d like to have someone that can help me out. I’m getting kinda tired of being the town nutter who appears on TV and drew pictures of big dogs as a kid.”

Agar seems to take this as a good excuse to get John out of the cage and actually have the two interact. Organizations like the RSPCA do their work, but can get overwhelmed easily. It’s how other rescues started and began to work to help out. Many, like some of the ones that get shows about werewolves with trauma working with parolees or that one quarter-wolf who had his own pack of traumatized wolves, would do what they could to put the wolves or dogs with good owners. Some worked to allow a wolf, if it wanted to be free, to get their collar off and live on their own - the Parolee one had at least two wolves on-staff who’d gotten their collars off and decided to stay.

Agar seemed pleased that John reacted to Henry, and Henry was happy that John let himself be petted. He wanted to ask more about John’s history, about _why_ John was here, but Agar didn’t seem eager to discuss it while John was still in the room. It was understandable, and something Henry liked about Agar - he treated John like he wasn’t just an animal, but an actual, thinking being. So after John went back while Henry filled out paperwork and got the information, Agar finally spilled.

“His last owner was declared legally dead,” he said, “and the man who bought him originally brought him back. When he first came in, John was getting offers from lords and politicians - he’s trained as a sheep dog, was trained to be a medical dog, and was discharged from the Army with a silver wound.”

All of that was pretty impressive. The training and the mention of him being a sheep-dog meant he probably had medals in at least one area, and it also meant he was calm and good with all sorts. The medical and the sheep-dog thing normally meant you could get him for someone who was horrible with their medicines and he could probably bully them into taking it. If anything, it meant they were never without someone to watch over them. The silver wound just added to it - no Werewolf form meant he couldn’t turn into the most dangerous and, at times, most-likely to carry the disease that would turn a Human to a werewolf. Granted, if he was a sheep-dog that meant the likelihood of him having said disease was very low, but not having that form just made him all the safer for families with kids.

“So...why hasn’t he been picked up?”

“I’m guessing because of the man who bought him. John had to deal with mistletoe poisoning, which meant the silver poisoning resurged shortly after a traumatic event. His Human disappeared, and was legally declared dead by his brother right before he dropped off John.” Agar appears unhappy by the way things have gone. “The silver and whatever the brother said to him didn’t do a lot for his psyche, and he’s not one to talk to psychiatrists. The ones on staff have misdiagnosed him a few times, and he’s horrible with talking unless he feels the need to, so...one day he went Wolf, and hasn’t come out.” Agar looks almost disgusted as he added, like it’s a prerequisite, “It’s ‘devalued’ him from before. It’s also why one of the few that _did_ diagnose him said that he needed both rest and excitement.”

Henry let out a breath, not commenting on it. ‘Going Wolf’ was a way of saying that a werewolf didn’t want to talk to people, or had nothing to say to them. It was a very old term, and one that a lot of people had for a variety of shapeshifters.  It was also something that not a lot of people liked about werecreatures, feeling they were ‘hiding’ something or that it wasn’t a real thing. If anything, it was as bad as what some people said about those with mental illnesses. On top of that, a lot of people tried to ‘cure’ those who’d gone wolf, often with bad results for the wolf and, at times, retribution against the owner. It made sense that politicians and others who had wanted a wolf to take care of their kids or run security or be a convenient doctor for ‘mysterious’ illnesses or the like would turn from the wolf they’d once all tried to get.

Doctor Agar looked over at Henry and finally asked, “Are you still interested?”

Henry is silent a moment longer before nodding. “Yeah…yeah, I still am.”

\--

Henry’s house has a large stone wall, is old-fashioned but has enough modern comforts, and shows his father’s old paranoia of living so close to a military facility. Henry has upgraded a few things, mostly for comfort, but otherwise is more comfortable with John around then he is with the additional money for security.

Doctor Mortimor is less than impressed with John, and Henry has a feeling that it’s a mutual dislike, as John tends to huff and stay near Henry or growl when Mortimor won’t back off from something that Henry doesn’t like talking about. Since he’s only a wolf, it’s one of the few ways that he can actually communicate, and Henry will pet him lightly to calm him down. Mortimor will often end the session then, and Henry will go down to get a pint. The owners of the one pub and wayhouse are nice and often give John some food. They had a wolf before, but one from a kennel which, it turned out, was bad as the thing turned out to not be an actual werewolf. Sadly, the two had to put it down, but were happy to spoil John with attention when they could and some of the leftover meats that they couldn’t sell so much, not as a vegetarian restaurant. Henry had offered to buy most of it off of them, but one had got it into his head to maybe make werewolf treats or the like, and offered free samples to John if he was up for testing them. John had wagged his tail a bit at that, and hadn’t protested any of the tests after that, not unless they were a complete bust and he’d looked at the men like they were idiots for even trying that combination.

They settle, Henry feeling safe with John nearby, and no longer as afraid of whatever might be in the Moor or what might have come from Baskerville.

\--

It was during the fourth week, when Henry and John went to go and look over the Baskerville research facility, that John saw someone who gave him a cause to growl. Henry knew that John’s dislike of psychiatrists got him to growl at Doctor Mortimor, but beyond that he tolerated her. The growls only occurred when she’d referenced him in general, rather than when she was trying to help Henry.

This was different. Anyone who had wolves or hung around them knew the different tone that growls could have, and this was definitely a growl that meant John saw or smelled someone or something that upset him. His hackles had raised and he was glaring down at the research facility, standing between Henry and whatever threat he’d detected.

Henry managed to pull him away, but sadly that meant they had to go through the woods near where Dad had died. Henry did his best to push through, John seeming to pick up on his fear of the place and staying close to him.

Both froze when there was a sudden, deep howl from the hollow where Dad had died, and the fog began to roll in. Henry never quite understood why there had to be fog, but something about it always scared him. He heard John whimpering next to him, shifting and trying to pull him away from the hollow as he stood, frozen, looking down on it and—

_DAD!_

_His dad clawed at the ground as a snarling beast laid into him, the thing not a werewolf but not a wolf or man either, something sinister and dark. He couldn’t see anything because of the fog, only hear his dad screaming in terror and pain and the sound turning almost to a gurgling thing when the eyes looked over at where he was. He couldn’t see any pupils, the whole of the eyes were dark and made him stumble back, scrambling up the side of the hollow as protruding roots tried to pull at his jeans and dirt got imbedded into his hands and fingernails as he climbed up, racing away through the dark trees and—_

“HENRY!” the voice, and a pair of blue eyes, caused him to suddenly focus on the man in front of him. He looked haunted himself, his hair an odd gray-blond color and his face lined with worry. The collar around his throat answered Henry’s confusion as the man pulled him away, half-dragging him along as quickly as he could while barefoot and naked in the cold.

“John,” Henry managed when they got out of the woods, the man looking back at him and shifting, as if uncertain if he’d stay as a human or a wolf. Henry waited, not wanting to push him, and finally said, “We can…the house. We can be safe there.”

John looked grateful for the way out of talking, following Henry back along the path to their home. The walls and gate were all ones that could easily be locked, and an alarm system let them in and stay in, without fear of anyone or anything breaking in.

Henry didn’t realize he was still shaking until he’d sat down and realized John had set the alarms and locked the doors. He looked thin for a human, as if he wasn’t eating well or was spending too much energy as a wolf, and he appeared far too sad, as if being human only showed all the pain and suffering he’d gone through in his life. As a human, though, even with the lines, he looks unremarkable. Had it not been for the ears and collar and the extra fur, he could have passed for just another person on the street.

John’s made him some tea, and Henry takes it with a cautious sip, John sitting next to him as Henry shifts and allows himself to pet John lightly. The werewolf is also shaking a bit, but not as badly as Henry is, and he seems to draw comfort from the contact as much as Henry does, the two slowly calming down before Henry lets out a breath. John is still human, and still very naked, and Henry isn’t sure how to bring up the subject of which species John wants to be at the moment. He isn’t really talking, just sort of being where he’s needed, and if that’s all he wants, then Henry is willing to give that to him. He sees no reason not to, and even without talking, John’s face is very expressive, showing his annoyance and fear at the situation but also how uneasy he was in his human body. Henry wasn’t sure if telling him that everything was ok would go over well, and so instead he drank the tea and took in deep breaths, trying to calm down. He was safe here - Dad had built the house to be safe, and Henry had kept up the maintenance, so they were safe.

John’s ears twitched a bit as Henry petted him one last time before saying, “I think we should go to bed. Too much excitement, that was.” John let out a huff and managed a weak smile, following Henry to the big room before looking a bit lost. Henry shifted before saying, “I don’t mind. Either human or wolf...it’s up to you. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

John looked at him for a long moment, assessing him, before moving to the bed that Henry had gotten him and laying down, shifting so his back was to him. He didn’t change back into a wolf, and Henry silently made a list of the items he’d need to get John before managing to get himself some sleep.

\--

John shifts a bit more between Human and Wolf forms, enough for Henry to get him some clothing just in case. John tends to like jumpers and jeans, which Henry is fine with giving him. Others seem to view John’s new Human form as quite handsome or “death in a snuggly jumper”. He still isn’t too comfortable around a few others – Doctor Moritmor still only sees him in his wolf form, and if he’s uncomfortable with the crowds that now appear after the airing of that documentary about his father’s death, as well as the other mysteries that surround Baskerville. Henry’s grateful that he’s not asked for much or is able to avoid becoming any sort of celebrity - he’d participated in that documentary because of what happened to Da and because he wanted answers, but he didn’t want to deal with the celebrity of it all.

John nuzzled against his leg, showing that he’d gotten a bit trapped in his old habits of thinking, and Henry smiled down at him, petting his fur and scratching behinds his ears. John relaxes as the touch, wagging his tail a bit right before stiffening suddenly, looking over as Doctor Frankland came up. Frankland had known Henry’s dad - they were close despite Frankland’s work at Baskerville and Henry’s da’s protest of it.

“Ah, Henry m’boy! How are you?” He smiles and then looks down at John, who is still stiff and still besides Henry. “You got yourself a wolf as well! Oh, he’s quite the handsome thing. What’s his name?”

“John,” Henry answered, shifting a bit as Frankland came up before saying, “He’s not very friendly, actually. I mean, not with people he doesn’t know.”

Frankland nodded, backing off a bit. “Of course, of course, so sorry about that. How are things going, m’boy? Everything alright?”

“So far, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” Henry said, not sure what was wrong with John and that making him even more worried and frightened. John normally was vocal or not about what was bothering him, in his own small way, but now he was just...still, stiff and it worried Henry.

“We’d best be off,” Henry finally said, “It’s been a long day, and John needs to get home. Plus, I have an appointment.”

“Oh, of course, of course! I’ll see you later, then.”

Henry smiled and nodded, walking off with John following him, obviously uneasy around Franklin or when he could still see or smell Franklin. It wasn’t until they had reached the house that John shifted to his human form, looking unhappy about something. Henry is quiet as John puts on a pair of old sweatpants and shifts a bit, as if still getting used to the changes.

“What’s wrong, John?”

“I...don’t know. I don’t like the way he smells.”

“Smells?” Henry asks, confused as John shifts, obviously uncomfortable and trying to figure out how to explain it.

“Something about it is...off. Not like the others from Baskerville, but...just…” John shrugged, pulling on a long-sleeve t-shirt before saying, “It’s something I don’t like.”

Henry slowly nods, not sure of what to say. John seems to pick up on that and gives him a bit of a glare before Henry smiles. “I don’t know what to say, alright? I don’t really like Frankland either, he’s got a weird air about him, and he’s picked up a lot of bad habits from his time in America. He goes there every few years, but he’s got a really weird outlook for wolves and everything. Doesn’t stop him from picking up some of the slang, though.” Henry watched John shift a bit at the thought. “Whatever’s up, I know we’ll figure it out. If we don’t, then I know I’m safe with you around, right?”

John gave him a small smile, obviously happy at the consideration, before saying, “I’ll make some tea.” It was John’s solution and way to solve some of his own woes, and while Henry liked his coffee, he had to admit he liked the tea as well. He followed John into the kitchen, trying to figure out what it was about Frankland that he just couldn’t shake off, and why he was so wary of him but not anyone else from Baskerville.

\--

Mortimor does what she can to try to get Henry to remember, but the years and his childhood trauma only give him bits and pieces of it. He knows that the thing he saw was a hound, and no matter what he can never get around to describing it, either as a wolf, werewolf, or something else. He remembers only two words at any one point, but anything beyond that is either caught up in seeing his father struggling against the monster, or hidden by darkness.

John helps, either by not pushing or just by being there as the nightmares sometimes get him worked up, and Henry, in turn, there there for him as well. John has a few nightmares, which often wake him before he goes to check on Henry, and Henry comforts John as much as he can. John is stoic about his nightmares, hardly making a sound when he does have them, and it worries Henry a bit.

Agar, when they take a trip to London for a check-up, can only tell Henry that John’s psyche means he has quiet nightmares. “He goes quiet when he’s hurt, that’s all. It’s good to see that he’s now moving between Human and Wolf form, and that he’s getting comfortable with you and with people besides you...and that there’s not...well, too much adventure.”

“I think the one adventure we had was bad enough,” Henry muttered, remembering his own panic and fear, “and anyway, we’re trying to focus on getting better.”

Agar is silent but finally nods, the two heading out and back to the train that would take them up out of London. He knows that John is still a bit sad while here, and Henry isn’t sure if he wants to keep John in the city long enough to remember or relive old memories from his previous owner. It was one of the many problems with getting a wolf who had an old owner and trauma like this, but at the same time, Henry enjoyed having John around, and he hoped John felt the same way about him.

John is able to direct them back to the right station, Henry a bit lost in the big city that he hardly ever went into, and he’s a bit distracted so he doesn’t see John suddenly freeze, looking at a passing cab right before he’s torn himself out of Henry’s grasp and raced after the cab that just passed them by.

“John!” Henry yells, racing after him in a vain hope of finding the lost wolf in this city. It doesn’t help they’re near Pall Mall of all places (Henry was more distracted then he thought) before he finds John standing in front of a non-descript building, not quite growling at a man before him who stands, leaning a bit on an umbrella he has, and looking at John with some annoyance.

“John,” Henry says, managing to grab his leash and look back at the man, noting his tall stature, receding dark hair, and long nose. Henry felt a bit self-conscious, holding John on a leash like that, but John had not been upset by the leash before, and it was only for the big city, not for when they were home.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, apologizing, “I don’t know what came over him.”

The man looked at John, who glared back but didn’t growl, and then to Henry. “No worries. I suppose he wanted to...discuss his dislike of how I handled things. You’re his new owner, then.”

Henry nodded, suddenly realizing that this must be the brother who had so hurt John before he was sent back to the RSPCA, and who had originally owned John. “Henry Knight.”

The man paused, as if recognizing something about Henry’s name, then nodded. “I see. Well, I seem to have wasted enough of your time, so I’ll be off, then.” He glances down at John briefly before heading into the building, and Henry is left to wonder who the man really was, and why he knew Henry’s name.

\--

“Baskerville’s problem child there?”

“Don’t get started, please.”

“Considering he’s adopted John, I think I have every reason to ‘get started’. _You_ were the one who put him up for sale, brother.”

“And he’s now got a good home--.”

“Hardly, especially not if you called me back _just_ to look into your little place you had _carte blanche_ over what they could do. So now not only do I have to clean up your mess, but I also must deal with people who would see _me_ as too restrained. How am I supposed to take that?”

“As the invitation it is. I give you the same allowances, all access to all laboratories...and this.”

The packet was pushed over and the other man took it, frowning before saying, “I take it you’re not about to let this one slide?”

“I can let a lot slide, in the name of safety and stability. _This_ , I can’t. And for what it’s worth, I can even clear up any legal problems. You’ll have your wolf back in a few days, if you clean this up.”

“His name is John, brother, and I think I’ll let him decide on his own if he wants back or not.”

 


	8. "Beware the Power of Darkness" or Shapeshifter Varients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly Revised! Henry and John slowly get their lives in some semblance of order, but a sudden attack throws all of that around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this story is not dead! It's just...I have three others that I'm dealing with and seriously considering reworking another two...so the muses have all of THAT to compete with. But I am making slow changes, so hopefully I will catch up with where I want to be soon.

Part 7: “Beware the Powers of Darkness” or Shapeshifter Variants

The trip to London is not at all productive, at least not in a way that Henry wishes it could have been. If anything, the run-in with the strange man who had once owned John has left the wolf more reluctant to talk or take on his Human form, but he’s also more aware of himself in his Wolf form, which makes Henry suddenly aware of how much John must miss his old owner, and how badly he might have been mistreated by the owner’s brother. It’s hard to see, and harder still to deal with. But he’s not about to send John back to the Kennel, nor is he going to abandon him either. He might not be able to figure out what happened to his father, but he still needs someone to help him out, to help him with the confusion that the Moor can give him when they stay out too late, and with the sudden return of all the tourists and tourism around the ‘Beast of the Moor’ thing, he doesn’t want to be alone.

John apparently also doesn’t want to be alone, but he’s not ready to talk about it either. Henry is reminded that John is slow to trust, slower still to fully trust someone and give them their loyalty, after what happened with his last owner. Whatever else, John trusts Henry to a degree, enough to stay with him no matter what, but Henry has the impression he also is mostly watching out for him and making sure he stays alive.

It’s something that makes Henry both wary of what might happen but also grateful that he has someone to trust by his side. He does what he can to ensure John knows that Henry will give him his space, as well as knows that he has someone to trust as well, even if just a little.

That John leans against him on the train ride back, and allows a kid to pet him a bit during said ride, says that he’s slowly getting used to the idea of trusting others as much as he trusted his last owner. Henry knows it probably won’t be as much trust, or even that everything will be alright, but he knows that John will be by his side.

\--

It’s not surprising that nightmares wake them both, though it is surprising when Henry goes to check on John and finds him shifting into his Human form, his arms and back showing deep scratches from where he’s dug into his skin with claws before his hands had formed. Though John is a medical wolf, and has enough skills to be a doctor, he’s also not talking and leaves much of the work to Henry.

“‘m sorry,” John finally mutters, hours later as Henry finds something quiet to watch while neither gets back to sleep, John’s back and arms bandaged and his clothing, as loose as they are from the weeks of not eating properly while at the RSPCA, on him as he lies curled next to Henry.

“No need to be,” Henry said, watching the movie. “We both need to get rid of our demons.”

\--

Frankland is more and more talkative to them, something that John is obviously uncomfortable with and was even before the debacle that was their trip to London. He talks mostly about some new person who came in, or someone that was looking at his research, but otherwise he’s always secretive about it and mostly just wants to see how Henry is doing and if he’s gotten further in remembering.

John doesn’t like Frankland, and it’s obvious he dislikes any and all attempts by Frankland or Mortimor to get Henry back out into the Moor again, especially so close to the landmine field that is close to Baskerville.

Henry, in turn, is still worried about John. While before the trip to London and the chase to that posh club, John had been willing to go around the small town in his Human form, he now mostly kept that to when he was in Henry’s home, remaining a Wolf whenever they were outside. Something had changed - or something had made him all the more wary - and he was always looking outside at night, as if concerned or worried.

So when the howling started later that week, at the same time that one kid had said he’d gotten a huge footprint of something that wasn’t a Wolf and had to be a Hound, a genetic monstrosity created at Baskerville and bred from insane Wolves...John had heard it, his ears standing up at attention and his tail going straight as he focused, listening, before he let out a long, low growl that Henry had never heard from him before. They had almost been home, and John had lowered his head, his fur rising up and his whole body tensing, as Henry swung the flashlight he had with him around quickly, looking all over in the shadows.

An answering growl had Henry almost turning before John shook himself hard, pulling the leash from Henry, and snarling at the hidden black shape in the trees. As much as Henry wanted to stay, wanted to turn the light on the monster that John was facing down…but the growls had hit something deep in his mind, had hit on every fear he had, and before he knew it, he was running to the house, unlocking the door in a hurry and slamming it closed before he realized he’d left John alone to face down whatever had been on the path.

\--

John knew that the thing in front of him was a warg, something that he’d never run into and something he never wanted to again. Wargs were not like himself, not like Werewolves that could change into two or three forms. Wargs had only the large form that some considered between werewolf and wolf, and without any human intelligence to go with it. The thing was a beast, a huge black beast with bloodshot eyes and a foul breath, that watched Henry go as John moved to keep his look only on him, growling and glaring at it as the dark warg returned his growl with a deeper one of it’s own, ears flat and hair bristling as it glared at John for blocking the route to its prey.

John had taken down a weretiger when he was still aching from mistletoe, would take down anything else that got between him and Henry. He couldn’t save Sherlock, hadn’t been able to keep him safe, and Mycroft’s disgust and the resulting return to the Kennel should have been the end for John…

But Henry had helped him. Even if John didn’t get the same excitement here as in London, even if his nightmares weren’t really that, but him missing the hunt and the thrill of going after criminals, even if the only odd case here was finished with a sniff to Frankland and Mortimor but his inability to tell Henry kept things going…

He wouldn’t let Henry die. He wasn’t going to let this thing get at him, and when it moved, he did too, his old training coming into play.

He was a medical wolf...but he was an Army one as well, and despite being told to take care of his charges, to heal, he knew how to wound and take out evil things like the warg in front of him. So when it let out a growl and a snarl before attacking, John was ready.

The fight wasn’t quick like he wanted, instead with John having to hold as much of his own as he could against the huge warg that did it’s best to kill him, tearing at his legs and fur as John worked to get at the arteries and veins which would end the fight quickly. He smelled rather than saw someone attempting to go towards Henry’s house, and the panic that came from the odd, disgusting chemical smell he always smelt on Frankland and the others who were connected to Baskerville got him to take a risk, grabbing at the warg’s throat and ripping as the warg itself sank it’s teeth into his leg, the one long ago wounded by silver, it’s teeth sinking in deeply as John tasted it’s foul blood and spat it out.

The warg bled out quickly, not taking it’s jaws off John, and he had to wrestle with it as it died before he managed to get out of it’s hold, limping himself and panting after everything, filled with pain over the attack adn all he’d done to fight off the thing that came after them.

 _Henry_ , he thought in a panic, turning to try and limp back to the house. _I have to save Henry! I can’t let him die like I let Sherlock die._

He managed a limping pace as he finally got to the opened door, whining at the smell before he caught scent of two familiar ones coming up, getting him to turn and look back as he saw Lestrade race up, his face tanned to a nut-brown color and his gun out, looking over at John with a blink of recognition before he headed over to check on him, letting out a breath. “Damn...you took on that beast, didn’t you?”

John whined in pain before Lestrade said, “Do you know where Henry is?”

The question got him to shift a bit before he let out a small woof, moving to stand and sniff at the ground and air, picking up Henry’s distinctive smell as he did his best to figure out who had gone with him and where. He can only guess he was lead or dragged to the Moor, to that Hollow where they’d last seen the monster, but he’s not sure who’s smell it is with him. It makes him sneeze and shake his head, trying to get another, familiar smell out of his nose as he reminds himself that the person he thinks he’s smelling is dead, that he only picked up the lingering scent from somewhere else, like he had in London. He has to find Henry, and with that, his mind focuses so quickly on the scent that is _Henry_ , and the similar, darker scent from the one who took him away, that his wounds suddenly don’t matter anymore. He vaguely heard Lestrade trying to get him to calm down, but his focus is back, and he knows what he’s looking for and how he can get it. He’s only good at tracking when it comes to his charges, or those he considers his family, and he’s racing, ignoring the pain in his shoulders or the way his body aches after the fight and getting the warg’s head off of him. He finds the hollow quickly enough, and races down to get to Henry and nudge at him as he holds a gun - not his own, one that smells of the man that has been following them, of the earthy smell here and chemicals that burn his throat - and he whines as the pain and everything catch up, getting him to fall against Henry as he pants, trying to focus. A weird, unnatural mist was growing near them, and he growled at it’s smell as he heard Lestrade come down, going over slowly to Henry. “Mr. Knight, I need you to put down the gun, ok? I’m Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I’m here to help.”

Henry’s smell is that of someone frightened, and John lets out another, low whine before he nudges a bit more at Henry, wagging his tail and waiting. He wants Henry to know that he trust Lestrade, and he should too. He’s happy when Henry lets the gun get taken before Lestrade says, “We should get out of here, get John some help. He’s badly hurt.”

Henry nods and they start to stand when something, something that starts mechanical and turns real, growls from nearby and they all freeze. John attempts to growl on his own, but he can’t manage it, the final pain from his shoulder making things hard for him right before a familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Your warg is dead and you’ve been found out. Give up. The experiment is over.”

Lestrade is in front of Henry and John, his gun out and ready, as the growl, if anything, got more menacing as the voice continued overhead, “The use of a warg was very good - I’m sure the two shopkeepers will be upset to learn what really happened to their poor dog. Why you decided to deal with Henry now, when he has his own wolf...though I suppose you saw that he smelled the chemicals on you. That’s why you started working on all those other cases, all those other places, and getting in the way.”

Lestrade looks frightened as the growling stops, and John doesn’t blame him - the fog is hiding whoever is in it, and that makes things dangerous. He’s managed to get Henry towards the eased path up out of the hollow, and John, despite his shock at the voice (possibly only he can hear it - it’s not the first time) manages to limp up and get Henry between the two, the darkness falling over them quickly for that time of year and making the wooded area not only dark, but overly misty as well. The chemical smell is getting overpowering, and he almost sneezes as it grows more when the voice says, “Liberty In...not in death, but the Americans do abbreviate a specific state as ‘in’...and it doesn’t take much work to get out that there were some very odd experiments going on before they were closed. But Baskerville is the _perfect_ place to take up those experiments again, isn’t it, Doctor?”

They were almost to the top when they saw the figure in the mist, his face distorted by the gas mask, before another, taller figure came up behind him and tore it off, revealing Doctor Frankland. John whined and tried to move towards Henry as he stared down at the man who’d been his father’s friend, and who was also his father’s murderer. The doctor looked up at them, and John could smell the same fear that had taken hold of Henry now taking hold of the man as Lestrade came forward to try to arrest him, only for the man to bolt past them, shoving Henry at John as he raced away and John let out a pained bark as his wounds and body protested. Henry got up quickly and raced after him as Lestrade yelled for Henry to stop, another, taller figure from the smoke racing up, dark great coat billowing out, and blue-gray eyes wide with concern.

“John,” Sherlock said as John looked up at him, whining and shaking his head. It was a trick, it had to be, but at the same time, the smell was right. It was the same one he’d smelled in London, and followed to that club in Pall Mall. _He’s alive...how?_

“Oh John…” Sherlock started before the two jumped as there was an explosion, both managing to get up as John sniffed, following Henry’s scent as they headed towards the marked minefield on the Moor. Henry was at least outside of it, held back by Lestrade, and both looked upset over what had happened as John managed to get to Henry, checking him over as Sherlock came up next to Lestrade, looking at the dying light of the explosion.

“Bastard ran into the field. We couldn’t stop him...I had to stop Henry,” Lestrade said as, shamefaced, Henry looked down and slowly stroked John’s fur and began to carry him back to the house.

“You’ll need to go and speak to his psychiatrist as well,” John heard Sherlock say quietly, “I have a feeling about her motivations in this as well.”

\--

Sherlock mostly went to help Lestrade with dealing with the few others who’d been helping Frankland with his ‘experiment’, some of them feeling fine with having nearly driven someone insane if it meant their research was justified. It was why Mycroft called him back from his self-imposed exile, tearing down all of Moriarty’s remaining network. What he hadn’t expected was for Mycroft to take the ruse so far and _hurt_ John like that.

Lestrade had filled him in when called - Agar and Gregson had been justifiably angry at how things went and even angrier that he’d passed things over to Mycroft to handle. Sherlock didn’t blame their anger, since his return to England had only just recently happened to figure out what was going on in Baskerville, not to mention the fact that John had been kept in the dark and put through an experimental procedure to rid him of the worse of the silver poisoning. The result made him far too thin, even after weeks of care with Knight, and had angered Sherlock when he’d first seen him. The focus on keeping Henry Knight alive, as well as fixing the issue with Baskerville, meant that he hadn’t been able to protect John like he wanted to, and with John now getting healed and Henry being looked over, it left Sherlock to do his best to focus on ending the conspiracy and it allowed Lestrade to use the authority Mycroft gave him to arrest whoever he needed to arrest.

Lestrade sighed as they continued to load the co-conspirators and as the base commander watches in obvious annoyance, though Sherlock doesn’t blame him - getting some of your people taken away for conspiring to test a drug that had been tossed out by most countries was a bad way to end the day. The rest of the scientists were apparently fine with those particular scientists being taken away, so long as it meant they didn’t have to stop their own tests.

“You should go check on him,” Lestrade finally said as the last of them were loaded and he finally got to speak to Sherlock about something besides the case.

Sherlock shifted, looking upset. “He has a new owner.”

Lestrade snorted. “You’re still reading that stupid series, aren’t you? About werewolves and what people think. I work with them, remember? The pack works for the Met, sure, but some of them will only work with _me_ , and others work better with one guy or another. It doesn’t change, if you leave or what happened. He’s loyal to you, and he’s going to do his best to be by your side. You’re _his,_ as much as he’s yours.”

Sherlock is quiet at that, and lets out a breath before saying to Lestrade, “Let’s go check on them, then. See how well that idea of yours stands up.”

They find them still at the clinic, John’s wounds deep from his fight with the warg and from his attempts to get to Henry while still hurt and bleeding. Henry is waiting outside, looking upset over the whole thing, and glares at Sherlock when he comes in, as if this was his fault. Sherlock easily stared him down as Lestrade let out a sigh and shook his head. “Are you two done? John isn’t gonna like the whole glaring thing.”

The vet comes out at that point, looking between the two before saying to them, “He’s doing better, if you want to go see him. We’ve moved him into the recovery area for right now, and want to keep him overnight for observation.”

Both Sherlock and Henry moved, heading over to follow the doctor as Lestrade shook his head again and sat down to wait for them to come back.

\--

John is grateful in some ways to see them both but also annoyed. He’d had to change back to his human form because of some of the wounds, not to mention he didn’t really feel comfortable as a wolf when he knew the two were going to talk to each other and possibly fight. At least as a Human, he could put in his own views. Afterwards, he could change back to a wolf and rest a bit more.

Henry and Sherlock, at least, don’t fight or at least seem ready to not fight, as most of their concern seems directed towards John and what happened. Sherlock, as usual, looks at a loss, while Henry shifts and appears nervous and overly afraid. John suspects he didn’t bother to have someone from Baskerville see if there were any long-term effects from him getting gassed everyone Doctor Moritmor sent him into the Moor and Doctor Frankland left his unfinished experiment there to drug him.

“You need to get some rest,” he muttered, mostly to the two of them, “you’re both too nervous. It’s making me nervous.”

“John,” Sherlock started, but John shook his head.

“You were down there without masks. The gas hasn’t left your systems and you both smell like it and like you’re overly afraid. Go home. Rest.” He glared over at Henry, who shifted a bit under the look. They’d been friendlier than he was with Sherlock, but then again, John tended to be friendly with almost everyone. With Sherlock, he was both a friend and a partner. With Henry, he was a friend and a comfort, a wolf who understood and would do what he could to help him. He hadn’t managed it, but he also knew that Henry’s paranoia and out-of-character actions were from his very real fear and paranoia that had come up due to the drug.

“The drug needs to leave your system, Henry,” he finally adds, “and you need to think straight. I’ll be home tomorrow. I’m sure Sherlock will stay in case you need anyone to talk to. He’s rubbish at it, yes, but--.”

“I was...am…” Sherlock admitted, “but he is right. I know the particulars about the gas. Maybe me talking about it, or knowing that, will help for tonight.”

Henry looks between them, as if thinking hard, then nods. “Ok. We’ll come back for you tomorrow than, John. Get well.”

John gave them both a sleep smile before yawning widely and managing to keep his eyes open just long enough to see the two head out before he finally rested, knowing that the two would return, and hoping that they at least would figure out all of the issues he knew would come up tomorrow.

 


	9. Interlude: Sibling Rivalry or Werepups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft deals with some of his own prejudices, some dangers, and more is mentioned about other werecreatures. Newly revised!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who stuck with the story! It's not dead, but I've been doing my best to keep up with the show, and sadly some issues came up in my personal life that resulted in me having to deal with that and a lack of any ability to write. Once more, thank you all for sticking with me for all of this!

Mycroft Holmes is able to admit his faults and the fact that he is prejudiced, in some cases, against werewolves. He supposes most of that comes from working with Americans and their odd views on werewolves or werecreatures in general. He grew up in a fairly normal if conservative house - his mother had stopped working to have her children and raise them, to be there for them, and at times, he supposed that it had been the expectation of her stopping work and Father continuing that allowed things to go as they did, instead of vice-versa. Father was far better at care-giving than Mother had been, but expectations had meant that he work and she stay home. She still _worked_ , kept up with mathematics and taught them all she could, but until school and other socializations, Mycroft and Sherlock had been fine with each other. Where Mycroft found the politics that had created cliques in school fascinating and learned from it to work in politics, Sherlock had not prospered as well until much later in life...well, until he finally accepted John into his life. The separation from his wolf had not been pleasant for either, and Mycroft was willing to admit that it was perhaps because the two worked so well together. John was happier with the thrill of the chase, with being useful as a medical and fighting wolf than anywhere else. Henry had worked for the short time there, but he doubted the two would ever really work together for longer periods of time.

Still, Mycroft was not one who thought of werewolves or werecreatures as anything beyond another species on this planet, and one that were only easier to understand. Humans may be social animals, with a few variations, but werecreatures fell more into their animalistic nature than anyone else ever did. Werewolves needed a ‘pack’, needed to have at least two others to rely on. Werecats depended on their situation - werelions were often in prides, weretigers were territorial and hardly relied on others, save maybe one other, werejaguars and werecheetahs were harder to spot but also moved more towards solitary creatures. Werebears, as hard as they were to find, tended more towards immediate family members or smaller groups, and were solitary for the most part, though some could live in smaller towns so long as they were allowed privacy. Any other werecreatures fell into that spot as well, falling with their most basic instinct of their animalistic side but with touches of other bits that made them so like humans in odd ways, giving way to some normally social weres that were better alone, or solitary were that enjoyed the city and being part of a group.

Their odd duality and classification should have made them easier to predict and deal with than humans, but it often only made situations harder to read instead. If anything, werewolves like John and other werecreatures who considered their ‘pack’ to consist of humans, or a mix of humans and weres, showed a high range of unpredictableness that made them harder to figure out, and made their cultures made it even harder to deal with when they mixed with human ones that were more used to treating weres as wild animals or pets. Even in groups, they were unpredictable, but within a government of any sort, they could at least be figured out to a point, so long as you knew what their culture was like…which required knowing quite a bit of cultures, and rules, and treaties that had occurred within the Americas and African continent. But that didn’t stop them from being so unpredictable and a group that Mycroft always dreaded dealing with, no matter if in a group or just one of them, while they’re in charge or in distress.

Take, for example, the werefox that had slipped into his home and was hiding in one corner, trembling visibly until he sent out his men upon realizing the intrusion and what was there. They were well trained enough to just be outside, waiting, and many of the cameras were now picking up the disturbance and location of the intruder. Mycroft had nothing to worry about if the werefox, afraid as it was, decided to attack him instead of turn back into a human, as he demanded of it the moment they were alone. He had expected it to transform into any number of people, but Todd Melas was not in that number. Melas was a young linguist Mycroft knew and who he sometimes brought in on situations, and who was a dark-haired Greek fellow that was as far from the stereotype of the Asian or Native American werefoxes that normally showed up. His fearful features, not to mention his lack of a tail or any werefox features, spoke to his mostly-humanness, but Mycroft was more focused on the blue-black bruises near his eye, the cut on his cheek, and the way he was shaking so badly it almost reminded Mycroft of someone having a seizure, his large, dark eyes under the curls of his hair full of fear as Mycroft looked at him in surprise.

Melas’ prowess with languages was something to be marveled - he could and often did serve well against Anthea’s own technical abilities, but there had been no hint of him being any part werefox, not even within his immediate family. Werefoxes were harder to detect at times – they specialized in their ability to blend in, but also had very long lives. The longer the lives, the more powerful they were, to the point of being above the law. Any werefox who looked like a normal one, such as Melas, was obviously young. If he had any werefox in his family, they were probably old enough to have mostly-human children or hide their true nature. However, that wasn’t something Mycroft was focusing on. What he was, as he removed his coat, put his umbrella down and draping the coat over Melas as he let out what sounded like a strange whimper, like a cross between that of a scared cat and cornered dog. “I’m going to call the medics. They’ll be here in a moment. I’ll stay with you, if you want.”

“…please…please, Mike, they…I…” another shiver quieted Melas as Mycroft turned, in time for his man look in, nod, and get Mycroft to move Melas to the nearby bed and get him to rest and calm as they waited on the medic.

Melas remained curled to one side, shivering and obviously not used to transformations or having been fairly traumatized by whatever events he’d been through, remaining near Mycroft and calming when he had a hand on his back or was having his hair petted lightly. Melas lets out small yips of pain for a brief period of time, startling when he’d fallen asleep and woken suddenly. He didn’t speak again until he’s been examined and given a spare track suit, finally letting out a few breaths before he says to Mycroft, “‘m sorry. I...I didn’t know who else…”

“Calm down,” Mycroft says, softly but firmly in a voice that he’d practiced after seeing how useful it had been when Sherlock was being unruly and Mummy wanted to keep him in line, “start from the beginning.”

Melas is quiet for a long time, finally taking in a breath before he said, “Two men who said they were from an embassy wanted to talk to me. I agreed to a meeting and they tested me to see about what languages I knew. When they were sure I was the...right one, they picked me up and drove me somewhere else. They drove me around, didn’t know I…I pass, and that I knew where we were after they drove around for so long, then went to that big house.”

“What did they want you for?”

Todd shakes briefly before he continues, “I needed to translate for them. They had a few people in there, kept against their will. They were trying to get something from them...the rights to someone, or something. I managed to get out some information about the man and his work, but not enough before they decided to take me away. I got afraid, and jumped out of the car. When they tried to follow, I managed to change. I was just...I had to...I knew here was safe, and I came here.”

Mycroft remains quiet as he considers the implications of taking a werefox, even one who was passing for human, into a place they were trying to hide. Werefoxes were notorious for finding their way anywhere, and while they could be very independent, were also known for how powerful and dangerous they could be, especially those with multiple tails. One in particular was rather well-entrenched in China, holding a great deal of power over the area, and being able to destroy anything or anyone it felt was a threat to its reign. However, multi-tailed werefoxes were either very hard to find, or very rare, that regular ones were simply considered fairly interesting when found, and watched carefully when identified. Mycroft is still amazed that Todd, passing werefox or not, was able to get away on his own and change, finding himself a safe place with Mycroft. He’s even more amazed that he was considered _safe_ by a werefox. It’s amazing in a way, and makes him seriously consider how he treated his brother’s wolf, during the time Sherlock was gone and taking care of the remainder of Moriarty’s group. He found himself slowly petting Melas, and happy when the werefox relaxes and seems able to have a few others near him and make sure he’s ok or ask him about the location of the place he’d escaped.

“We’ll stop them, Melas, I promise.”

\--

Finding two men who kidnapped a linguist proves to be fairly hard, but finding the house proves far easier. The two apparently hadn’t seen Melas transform, as they left enough incriminating evidence in the area, according to Sergeant Donovan, to pick them up for any number of charges, but had not left enough scent-markings of any sort for some of the wolves to track them.

The worse, it sounded, was kidnapping and torture. One person in the house was half-dead from malnutrition, others showed signs of having been brutally beaten. All were from other countries, a few were prisoners who were kept to clean house or answer the door, and while Melas was obviously afraid, he still joined Mycroft and the raid group to help with translations. The werewolves looked like they could tell he was a fox, but overall did their job and apparently were a bit fond of him for his ability to work through his fear and anything else they could smell that Mycroft couldn’t notice through his own, human senses. Most trained werewolves could ignore others if there is a job for them to focus on, and foxes and wolves tended to have various strange relationships. Some were not friendly, especially hunting werewolves, but others were perfectly fine. Some even joined together in small groups in the wild, though such groups were more often in areas that had werecrows and were often charged with patrolling the edges of territory or scouting out for their family or group.

Still, Todd stays very close to Mycroft, and Anthea makes the very snide comment that he probably had wrapped his non-existent tail around Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft choose to ignore those observations, and instead focus on the raid and the report, as well as on the various people coming out and in need of translations or help. Though at least once, he appeared to have his ears moving up a little, the tips turning darker and elongating as he became more upset or wanting to escape. Mycroft frowned at the move before reaching up to touch his back, offering a steadying hand as Melas drew in a shaky breath before moving forward with more translations and helping the wolves and the police with the people inside.

On the plus side, Sergeant Donovan seems to harbor no ill-will towards Mycroft for any of the misgivings, though some of the werewolves give him glares, saying that Donovan is actually being very professional about the whole thing. Though she was not someone he would have particularly tagged as knowledgeable in anything, she seems to know how to deal with people and weres alike, and thus his inability to deal with any of them besides Todd is obviously a failing. But his ability to keep him together until they’d gotten the last person out, gotten the translation, and then gotten everyone to human hospitals or to the RSPCA hospital, was fairly good. He didn’t turn back into a fox until he, Mycroft, and Anthea were back in the limo with tinted windows, the sudden change from human to a black-furred fox that proceeded to curl up in Mycroft’s lap, hiding his face under his tail and only relaxing more when Mycroft slowly put a hand on his head and rubbed some of the ears before petting him.

He glared over at Anthea and her silent smile as she continued to type on her Blackberry.

“I didn’t say anything,” Anthea muttered as he continued to glare at her.

“You don’t have to. When you have a break, check on my brother and his wolf, then call back Lestrade. I’m sure he’ll want to hear how well his sergeant did on such a large bust.”

Anthea still smiled as he continued to pet and scratch Melas’ soft fur, and Mycroft had no other real way to retaliate besides leveling a glare at her as she worked.

\--

“I’m not actually on your payroll, you know,” Lestrade said as he came to speak to Mycroft, two days later and after Sherlock had opted to remain and wait to see how John recovered, though it was obvious John wanted to return with him. Not that Henry Knight was going to make things easy for him, but then again Mycroft isn’t surprised at that.

“No, but you are under enough stress to have a cigarette about an hour before you came here,” Mycroft pointed out as he looked at him, “So, I assume you found something that warranted your break from patches?”

“Your brother is enough stress I’m amazed we both haven’t started smoking again…or are you going to deny your own habit?”

Mycroft is both impressed by Lestrade’s perceptiveness but also annoyed by his attempt to deflect the question. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Answers mine,” Lestrade said with a shrug before telling him, “Sally filled me in what’s going on, and about an interesting report we got late-night a day ago. I’m sure you’ll get it soon enough, if you haven’t already.”

Mycroft gave him a look before saying, “I wouldn’t waste your time if I had.”

Lestrade gave him a small smirk that never failed to make Mycroft grateful for all the exercise he’d been doing to keep his shape. “Right. Well, the short of it is that two men were running away towards Russia and got caught by a fox with at least three tails. Only way to describe the remains of one of them, or that the other one jumped out of a bullet train and didn’t aim to actually do much but go straight down into the tracks.”

Mycroft did his best to not wince at the image that brought up. “I see. And you believe they were chased by more than just a three-tail?”

“There was mention of others, most of them immigrants or diplomats that we can’t trace without raising some issues. So I’m guessing that’s why you haven’t gotten much about it.”

Mycroft suspected that, but he also suspected that Anthea had left it out so he’d speak to Melas again. He’d finally managed to not remain at Mycroft’s side after yesterday, and while this information might put him at ease…

_I am right, at least, to know that I was dealing with one linked to tailed fox. But anything at three or above is problematic, especially after whatever Lestrade read to know right away it was a three-plus tailed fox._

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. I take it there will be little issue with my brother coming back to help out with cases?”

He gave a pained expression. “The Chief isn’t exactly happy with how things are going, and truth be told, I think a break would be better for Sherlock and John. John needs to know his limits, after everything, and so does Sherlock.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but agree with Lestrade’s take on the situation, but he’s also grateful that Lestrade said it in such a diplomatic way, and that he was honest and didn’t just tell Mycroft want he wanted to hear. He’d deal with that enough times when it came to werecreatures that he’d been blindsided twice, and now had to reorient his whole world view. That would take a moment, and possibly mean he’d need to go and speak to Lestrade about it. If he knew Lestrade, the detective inspector would demand pints in exchange, and that would only make Mycroft’s dietician upset.

“Thank you, Lestrade. You have been helpful.”

“’Course. Tell that nice werefox of yours that he’s safe…whoever got them, they’re gonna make sure their own is safe.”

Mycroft made a mental note to do something not-nice, but not career ending, to Sergeant Donovan when he had a chance.


End file.
